My haircut appointment today was at 10:15 am. I had made the appointment yesterday with the person whom I assumed was a new stylist at the salon notwithstanding at the time she was seated at the front desk. She had greeted me I thought rather abruptly when I entered the salon, asking “Do you have an appointment?” without so much as a “How-do-you do?” Indeed I was at the time overwhelmed by the curtness of her so-called welcome. When I reported I was there to make an appointment, she asked “When?”, to which I replied “Tomorrow”. She followed this mirthful repartée with, “Do you care who with?” I said, “No” even though in all previous occasions at the salon I had been clipped by the male salon owner who at the time was engaged with a client. The new stylist did not say with whom I was scheduled but merely asked, “The name?” I replied, “Chapman”. She then interogated, “Is that your first name?” I said “No”. This succinct response was insufficient for her. She pressed me further. I told her my first name. She then addressed me by my first name, adding the time of the appointment. As I struggled to record the appointment on my iPhone, standing at the front desk while manipulating my stick, she did not offer to provide a written endorsement of the appointment.
It was an unsettling, unfavourable and starkly unrewarding experience. My initial reaction had been to undertake a violent reaction, basically to recoil from the previous conversation, cancel the appointment and leave never to return. I was however so astonished by the seemingly callous nature of the proceedings that I was curious to know what had provoked this contrary air. I imagined that the stylist was currently suffering some unrelated friction (possibly with the owner).
In any event the bottom line was that I needed a haircut though by that point I was beginning to suspect the stylist might inflict upon me some calculated retaliation without knowing what in particular may have provoked her. In my continuing analysis of this gravelly event I projected it may have been my large Tom Ford spectacles which I am aware sometimes inspire a mixture of amusement and cool reservation. Indeed this morning I decided to wear instead my more conservative “granny glasses” as a gesture of goodwill in this unfolding diplomatic affair.
As so frequently follows such gritty confab, when I re-attended the hair salon this morning, both the stylist and I had adopted a fresh approach. As briefly as before she beaconed me to the salon chair. When I asked whether I might first have a shampoo (a tradition I have observed throughout my lifetime) the stylist rejected the need, suggesting it were better to have it afterwards in order to remove any remnant hair from the cut. I deferred. My purpose for preferring the initiative of the shampoo was to dilute my hair sufficiently to remove the natural construction of my hair which I reasoned would impede an efficient cut. Once again it was upon all account a small concession; nor was it one which materially accosted my perception of customer relations.
In the end I never had my shampoo. Following the cut the stylist and I mechanically agreed the shampoo would be superfluous. Nonetheless I paid the bill and gave the stylist a 45% tip. She and I had had an animated though reciprocally snappish conversation during the cut. I realized her terse demeanour was more native than engineered. She had raised 4 boys largely on her own, having divorced her first husband. On balance – and the determinative issue in this context no matter what the competing ingredients – she had performed her personal service well and to my satisfaction. Call it a variation of the quip about where to go and how you get there.
This was the spicy start to my day.
I left the salon amid a patently controlled discussion between the stylist and the salon owner regarding the stylist’s obviously repeated assertion that having her standard poodle there was an improvement contrary to the opinion of the owner. As I closed the salon door and stood outside in the rain I felt I had been as inconsequential as a FedEx employee. Yet the product satisfied. I therefore abandoned my petty suspicions and conclusions.
I got into my car. It is no secret I enjoy driving my car. I decided contrary to my initial expectation to go about what was normally my afternoon drive to the car wash though since several days ago I no longer have my Season Pass for the car wash because I haven’t bothered to buy another for the requisite 90 days especially as we’re leaving the jurisdiction in twenty days. In case you’re interested to know why I would choose to wash my car in any event when it is raining, the weather is entirely irrelevant to my custom. The car wash is just an excuse to drive the car. Plus under normal conditions with the Pass I would have already paid for the wash (admittedly a trite and purposeless economy).
Enhanced by this unqualified vehicular resolve I headed in the driving rain to nearby Carleton Place. I proposed to go to a local merchant in search of a size-fat bathing suit to ensure I have a suit at the hotels on our upcoming journey to Key Largo for the winter. Not surprisingly the clerk at the store advised bathing suits had been put away for the season.
Next door to the clothing store is a nail salon. This is a sphere of the personal service industry in which we traditionally participate although because of my incremental immobility I have lately allowed myself to by-pass this simple indulgence. I was able to get an immediate appointment with but a brief wait. The ceremony that followed was one with which I am accustomed. In this category of “mall” salons it was not unexpected to be greeted by employees unanimously of Asian descent. My particular attendant demonstrated the customary distance engendered by lack of command of the English language. Nonetheless we managed to share briefly matters touching upon music in addition to the more immediate observations arising from the manicure and pedicure. It was adjudged that the good health of my nails spoke favourably of my general health. This persuasive medical observation was accompanied by the usual assertion that I looked younger than my age which we calculated was precisely 50 years more than that of the manicurist. It made for an elevating exchange in spite of its predictability and unreliability.
Back home the rain became more violent still. It appeared to shatter the windows. Upon getting into the apartment I felt compelled to disarm myself of my complete morning wardrobe including the granny glasses which were beginning to hurt my ears as they are rounded metal cable temples. The bits of hair from my cut were paradoxically annoying me around my neck. I needed a catharsis.
Thus refreshed – and after taking my noon hour analgesic – we settled in for the television display of the US Congressional investigation into the insurrection on the Capitol building. It is infrequently that I catch my breath while watching anything. This however did not limit my response today, repeatedly.
This morning’s intelligence from the investigation committee is a disgrace to the Republican Party and those members who persist to dismiss the insurrection and Trump’s obvious mania as somehow excusable in the pursuit of election at any cost. I regard any support of Trump as little more than manipulation of detail for venal purposes. To me it merely points to the mercenary nature of those politicians and does nothing to advance or sustain the desirability of popular rule.
Never before has “God Bless America” meant so much!
