Last week once again I got tired of waiting for my hair to grow gray gracefully. It had been six months since I had last had it colored, and while it sometimes seemed as though the gray was coming in nicely and highlighting the remaining light brown, I wasn't really sure that an objective (or critical) observer would make that same judgment. So it was off to the local beauty school, my favorite place for a color after previously evaluating three other more upscale salons in the area. The prices are less at the beauty school, but part of the reason that I favor this place is that I have vocational school education in my professional background, and I like to support it and see how it works these days.
I walked in and went to the desk where an adult teacher or supervisor keeps the records, receives payment, and assigns the task to a student. I have been there at least five times since I moved to Cincinnati, but I have never had the same woman (the students are all women) twice. I did not have to wait long before Erica approached me and asked me to come to her station. I went and sat. She disappeared, as the student usually does, to the back room, where she or someone mixed the solution. She was a long time in coming back, so I took off my glasses and my earrings, glanced around at the few students on duty that morning, and then zoned out, closing my eyes and doing what I think many women do at the hairdresser's--enjoying the relaxation. Then she returned and started parting my hair section by section and applying the solution. It is a familiar procedure, so the only surprise was that she seemed to be parting it in smaller sections than usual. That may well have been necessary since it had been so many months since it was last attended to; I didn't let it bother me. Part of going to a salon where there are students in training is to be patient.
We chatted. Did you grow up in Cincinnati? she asked. No, but I grew up in Ohio. How long have you been a student here? I asked her, and when will you be finished? I'll probably be done a month from now, she answered. That figures, I said to myself; I never get the same person twice.
The supervisor came over and told Erica that she had assigned another customer to her, for a cut while my color was setting. OK, responded Erica, but then she looked over to see the customer and said, That woman won't let me do her hair. She doesn't like me.
What? Erica was black, and the next customer was white, but then, so am I. No reason was given for the customer's prejudice, and no discussion ensued, but the supervisor said she would assign the customer to someone else and walked away. Erica muttered quietly that she thought it wasn't right that the next customer was against her, and I murmured quietly from my reverie that there was no reason that the customer should be so negative. But I didn't want to start a discussion, so I just closed my eyes again and enjoyed that lovely feeling of someone working with your hair.
Finally Erica finished with the partitioning and application of color, set the timer, and allowed me to get out my iPad to play with while waiting a half hour for the color to set. It was only as I watched her clean up her station that I realized that Erica had only one hand.
Nor did she have a prosthesis. There was a stump where her second hand should have been; it came somewhere between her elbow and wrist--closer to her elbow. How could I possibly not have realized this as she parted my hair into sections and applied the liquid color? But I hadn't. Somehow she had managed to do that so similarly to the way it had always been done that I, with no central vision in one eye, and diminished vision in both, had not seen it. Or had not been paying attention.
Now, of course, I paid attention. When we walked over to the shampoo station, I wondered silently whether she would be able to soap my hair and massage my scalp. She did, and I didn't get any more wet around the neck than I normally do at this stage in the process. Then we walked back to the styling station and she asked if I wanted her to blow dry the hair. Yes, please, I said automatically, and did I notice correctly a slight hesitation on her part? Yes, I wondered, how could she hold the dryer and style the hair with a brush with only one hand? I do that poorly enough myself with two.
Truth be told, it wasn't the best blow dry that I ever had. The dried hair was wispy and not shaped as finely as I would have liked. But by that time my lunch date had come into the salon and made his presence known. Perhaps she hurried more than normal, or stopped before she normally would have, because she assumed I was in a hurry. I did not ask her to re-do or refine the styling. I simply thanked her, put on my earrings and glasses, tipped her as usual, wished her well, and walked out.
I thought about her for quite some time and admired her determination and skill, but I couldn't help wondering why she had chosen a vocation that not only glorifies normal attractiveness but also requires physical dexterity. And then I remembered. I, too, am persisting in my chosen profession. With diminished eyesight I am still reading, writing, keyboarding, and even editing code on a screen. Perhaps it is the challenge to remain normal.
