Yesterday Sweetpea took me to her favorite Mom and Pop “beauty” salon, the other end of the spectrum from the tony hair studio of Tuesday, for a shampoo and blow out. The attendants seated us side by side in chairs and proceeded to squish a liquid from a clear plastic condiment bottle into our hair, massaging and soaping as they went along. Slightly disconcerted, I started to laugh.
“You’ve never had your hair washed like this before?” Sweetpea asked.
“Not even close!” I replied.
Now, of course, that I am thinking about it, I have had my hair washed like that but I was on morphine so it all seemed like a dream. That male Brazilian nurse gave me my favorite hair wash of all time, 48 hours after fracturing my ankle. I may have mentioned this before – it is an important memory. I felt like Queen Elizabeth I getting her annual hair wash. He rinsed me off in bed with buckets of warm water. The mattress on which I was flayed was plastic so no matter. Yesterday’s stylist rinsed me off in a regular wash bowl. Afterwards came a head and shoulder massage that made me want to go home and nap.
Earlier in the morning, two men from the maintenance department came over to hang a few things. The man in charge spoke no English but we managed just fine. Together we hung up about 10 of the 200 items. His combover was endearing, flopping back to its original side and hanging below the rest of his hair by a good 5 inches. I thought about pantomiming the application of styling products to combat heat and humidity. The 100 degree steam bath we live in wilts even the most carefully confected hair style. Gesturing how to hang two pictures on the wall at the same level, although of different sizes, did me in however and I was no longer up to the task. Mr. Combover was so handy I am going to have to invite him back. He might be my new best friend.