A Visit to the Hair Salon

Dark Spirits and Light Hair

While the world prepares to implode (or explode, depending on your take) there’s a little corner of the wild where women of all stripes continue a time-honored tradition. America’s women—her childless cat ladies, aging soccer moms, glam girls, and graying socialites—gather faithfully at local salons to get their tresses just right.

Blondes have more fun, it is said, and as a fake blonde, I can confirm this is true. I hit the the salon regularly, and for a certified people-watcher like myself, it’s a dark sort of fun indeed. Such entertainment comes with a price, though—and not just the $250 highlights. One must part with peace and proceed through a number of stations to experience the kind of spectating that makes for a sociologist’s dream.

Like people, hair salons (as distinguished from “barber shops”) exist on a socioeconomic and taste spectrum; if you’re paying $15 for a cut and style, you’re not getting a scalp massage and listening to wealthy women bare their souls. Nobody at Krazy Kutz has an hour to listen to such nonsense, nor are they bringing you hot tea or offering a “Malibu” treatment. In addition, the cast of characters cutting your hair may differ by a few degrees—it’s Ethan, fresh from the ABC beauty academy, versus Phillip, the certified, trained-in-Paris “balayage specialist”.

My salon sits on the “high end” of the spectrum but has changed names over the years (as has the former frozen yogurt down the sidewalk). Under its previous ownership, beverages, a magazine table and lengthy scalp massages set you back an additional thirty minutes or more, which was a bit much for a “busy mom” like me. Clients were parked at at the long conference table at various intervals. I loved a mid-morning Coke, but idling while the pampered gossip and gripe squandered precious time and brain cells. Mercifully, in the salon’s latest iteration—now run by a cigarette-smoking European man—the emphasis is more on the actual hair and less on table-time gimmicks.

Despite the new aesthetic, when you walk in you’ll immediately recognize that you’re still entering the alternate universe known as salon culture. Most women (and a few extra-cultured men) know exactly what that means. Most stylists look artsy, goth, or like former strippers; decor is often avant-garde, unrelatable for the scores of moms and grandmas who form the clientele. My salon checks all these boxes, but I’ve still enjoyed a great relationship with my stylist—a brilliant guy who shares none of my beliefs.

On most days at this salon, you’re greeted by a youngish receptionist who’s styled like one of Satan’s errand boys. His bald and frightfully tattooed head crowns a skeletal frame boasting its own collection of sprawling, demonic stamps. There’s a tattoo for every finger, and his neck is covered in ink as well; violent piercings on his lips, eyebrows, nose and forehead announce that Screwtape’s apprentice sits before you. To encounter this fragile frame, too slight to bear such darkness and abuse, is to witness Satan’s cruel work.

Were this young Wormwood the only visual, you would assume this was Hell’s lobby. Behind his perch, however, an open and less infernal salon space is in full view, making clear that the tortured receptionist’s work is benign, limited to customer greetings. Behind him, a variety of people circulate and chatter, some as stylists, some as clients. While the stylists sport things like funky black fedoras and velvet goth dresses, the mostly-female clients look like they strolled in from carpool, bridge, or the office; but they are generally covered in a black salon cape and often sit under layers of silver foil. Despite this ugly setup, most will eventually emerge as a blonde, chestnut, or silvery wonder.

Rows of mirrors and swivel chairs, whirring dryers, and a eccentric lineup of stylists form the backdrop of our salon theatre. On one wall hangs a staple of too many salons—a large, dated and depressing piece of art. The ceiling has (of course) been removed, exposing enough plumbing and circuitry to lend the requisite industrial-chic feel to this strip-center space. One must feel cold, artsy and cosmopolitan when under the care of stylists.

The back storeroom door is frequently left open, revealing a small room with a long row of mannequin heads perched on a high shelf; most of these have diabolical and disheveled looks, too. This little laboratory is where colorists gather to concoct their special formulas, and I can only assume that newbies use the the creepy heads to practice the craft. I must admit, I’m impressed that this closet, stuffed with so many mysterious chemicals and eerie props, also holds the secret behind the vibrant locks that exit the salon.

Seated in the first chair by the door is a septuagenarian who chats away with a handsome, gay stylist; he will capture her heart for the next hour or so. She sports a gorgeous Chanel bag, which draws some praise and then inspires a story about her grandson’s birthday. She inquires eagerly after her stylist’s cats, boyfriend, and travels; he, in turn, dishes on the Michelin restaurants in Amsterdam. At the conclusion of this appointment, he slowly spins her chair to reveal the fluffed and cemented coiffure that will likely outlast her weekend social calendar.

Another stylist—we’ll call her Alex—is just a few chairs away, applying highlights to a young mom’s long hair. Alex is less gregarious and sports tattoos rivaling those of the front-desk specter. She is part bohemian, part motorcycle goth; if it weren’t for her spiked dog collar and tattoos, she would make a good ballerina or pianist. Watching her glide sweetly across the salon—she sweeps hair between clients—you wonder what drove her to cover her porcelain skin in jagged designs, or why she wanted to pierce both eyebrows. Was she unloved, abused, angry? She wears combat boots, so I assume she’s been embattled for years.

At the top of the salon hierarchy sits the owner, whose chair sits elegantly apart from the rest. Unlike the motley crew of flying scissors, he strikes a conservative and plain note—short hair, no piercings, no tattoos, no flamboyant chatter. He is a mix of Berlin and France somehow—tailored shirts and abrupt tones that betray a taste for cigarettes. His tame attire notwithstanding, he’s still not what we’d call conservative, though he is quite amiable. I overheard him once as he questioned so many red state ideas in spirited protest, his elderly female client nodding in quiet—perhaps pretended—agreement. “The guns (snip, snip)—I do not understand why anyone needs them! And I do not care who marries whom!” So he goes on, clipping and shaping, echoing the collective minds of his employees.

I stared at the ceiling during his speech, stuck at the nearby wash basin for my shampoo and scalp massage. If you close your eyes at that time, you’ll hear floating snippets of all sort of conversations that you’d rather not hear at all. Vacuous chatter, lost musings, and the heaviness of hell’s whispers. I do my time and pay my bill—gasp! It always costs more than I’d expected. So goes the exchange, though, in worldly fashion—blonde hair, with shine, for my cash and peace of mind.