Folks, when did things like lunch and haircuts get so complicated?
I had some chowder and a bagel at the eco-friendly bagel shop in the college town. I was finished with lunch, although had not exactly licked everything clean. With trepidation I approached the waste station. I’ve been to this rodeo before, I thought with a sigh.
If any of the millennials had looked up from their devices, they’d have seen a confused middle aged lady muttering and slowly moving fistfuls of detritus first above this trash hole, then that one. Each hole had what appears to be synonymous labels. Is my soup-covered fork Compostable? (Is this the place that uses the utensils made from corn or is that the other place?) Does the bagel paper go in Recyclable, Semi-soiled, Biodegradable, Locally sourced goods, or Decaying matter? I wanted to avoid putting anything in the one marked “Defiler of Mother Earth” – the one that actually goes to a landfill. I need a Waste Sherpa, I thought.
Lunch can feel more stressful than the work you return to sometimes.
Later that night I tried to read a bit of my paperback before settling in to sleep, and kept having to blow shaggy bangs out of my face. I have managed to find yet another hair stylist who is so petrified of creating a Mullet that I pretty much get a Tellum – an anti-mullet. The back is practically scalped and the front is long and unruly about a week after my cut. So I “trim” the front part, of course (I randomly cut pieces, but with tiny delicate snips like at the salon, so it feels legit).
When I do return to get my hair cut, the stylist assesses my head, wrinkles her nose, and asks, “Who trimmed your bangs?” She wants to know if I cheated on her with another stylist. She knows the trim is bad and can’t wait to insult the Other Woman. But fear not, I paid no money for this.
“So, the thing is . . .,” I begin. And she knows I’ve been tangoing with dull scissors.
“You know we do discounted bang trims between haircuts,” she will say. “Just pop in.”
Yes. The trouble is, it’s at 10:30 pm on a Sunday that I can no longer take the sheepdog situation. I can’t just pop in. Seriously, what working parent “pops in” anywhere? We schedule pee breaks in advance.
Not that a haircut is just a haircut lately anyway. I was getting my hair shampooed recently at the salon, and the stylist asked, “Would you like a complimentary paraffin hand treatment?” She said it in a way that assumed I would know what the words “paraffin” + “hand” + “treatment” mean, perhaps because I am female. (The wrong sized hand-me-down corduroys I wore should have been a giveaway that I’m not much into “beauty treatments”, or “appearance”, but that’s another story). I DO, however, know the word “Complimentary” and I like it a lot.
I said, “I don’t know what that is, but I’ll try it!”
She brought me and my sopping head to a station with a bowl of hot wax. She directed me to dip my hands in 3 times, one at a time. I kept forgetting to splay my fingers when dipping, so my fingers fused together as one hardened, waxy unit. Then she slipped oven mitts on my hands. I was wondering if I should tip her for this additional service when I realized there was no way in hell I could wrangle cash out of a wallet unless I used my feet.
Which made me think that this would be a great mugging scheme for a high-class area! Offer someone a complimentary paraffin treatment, and once the wax and mitts are on, sha-bam – she’s immobilized and you run off with her Kate Spade bag. Or whatever it is the fancy ladies carry these days. I was trying to figure out how much the paraffin and a means of keeping it warm would cost – would the investment be offset by the profits? If you need a second person to collect the bowl and heating equipment while you escape with the purse, then you’re already splitting the take. Hmm.
I was lost in this imagining, smirking and spaced out in the fancy salon in my hand-me-down cords and oven mitts, until I was roused and directed to a chair for my next Tellum.