9.1: Bad Ass

Here’s an essay written by Chris Gough, a former Creative Nonfiction student. Notice the vivid description and clear storyline. It’s not about any big tragedy or accomplishment—it’s a story about the day-to-day of working in a salon.

Back in the early nineties, I worked as a receptionist in a beauty salon with twelve hairdressers. My job was more than just making appointments for cuts, curls, and colors. I did sales and purchases of the various beauty products sold. Gooey creams that smelled like my doctor’s office, shampoo with the ocean breeze of a coconut, and hairspray stronger than cement, were all sold at the front desk. I collected chair rental from the reluctant beauticians every Friday. I washed and folded towels, fighting with overflowing laundry bins and static zaps from the hot dryer. The overall appearance of the salon and making sure it looked good, had been another of many of my duties. The most important job tasked to me was pampering the women who came in once or twice a week for what was termed a standing appointment. All I ever asked in return was a piece of their story, to learn the details of their history. I learned quickly; their stories were no different than mine. To think, up until that moment, I feared old people.

A standing appointment meant a woman, usually an older woman from a generation gone by, coming in for a hairdo on the same day at the same time each week. To get your hair set was a big deal to the women who came in. It was more of a social gathering than anything. Some came twice a week and those, who perhaps had a smaller budget, came in once. They would get a deep cleaning, followed by rollers tightly secured to the scalp, thirty minutes or so blasted with extreme heat, and the final step, the comb-out. The comb-out always looked incredibly painful as the beautician grabbed clumps of hair with one hand and with a comb in the other, proceeded to violently backcomb or tease it all into what can only be described as a rat’s nest. Thin wisps of grey and faded hair stood straight in the air slightly curled at the top. Each clump would be sculpted with precision in place like an artist molding clay. With a can of Aqua Net, the beautician would spin the ladies around in the chair and just spray for a good minute to insure the newly coifed do would not be doing anything but staying perfectly in place until they met again. By the end of the day my lips were coated with shellac from walking through an Aqua Net haze for eight hours. The taste of stale alcohol hung on the back of my tongue and tonsils. During the height of coifed hair season, the holidays, my nostrils would become stuck from breathing in the effervescence over the course of the day.

The most crucial part of my job had been knowing who took cream and who did not in their coffee. For those who did, I knew what shade their coffee needed to be. Some ladies liked a cold Coke from the vending machine and without being asked, I had it waiting for them by their dryer with their favorite magazine. For those that were there for a duration, I would take their lunch order and walk to the small bakery two doors down and get their lunch

North Breezes House of Beauty was a buzz of excitement. Most beauticians worked Tuesday through Saturday. Tuesdays were busy enough to keep the day moving. Wednesday always went fast with the dread of Thursday pressing on you. Thursday was the day everything happened. I had to be sharp and ready for anything. Ladies would show up fifteen minutes late and then begged their hairdresser for a perm at the last minute.

“My hair would set better and Jenny is having a dinner party on Sunday. You don’t mind, do you?”

Of course, her request was obliged. This meant for the next twenty minutes everything I should be doing came to a halt. I needed to call the next three ladies in line at home. I would explain that Bonnie wanted to know if they could come in thirty minutes earlier or would they want to switch until tomorrow. If the lady grumbled a bit, Bonnie lured her with the promise of getting her grey hairs colored a much-needed week earlier, if she accepted the offer. It had been nothing but wheeling and dealing in that place.

It never failed of the twelve beauticians that worked there nine of them always overbooked on Thursdays. It was a constant juggle of keeping everyone moving in and out, as well as keeping everyone happy while they waited endlessly to get their turn in the chair. The pouring of coffee, a fresh pot brewed every ten minutes and stains wiped up off the laminated end tables kept me running. The beauticians were divas in their own right. They needed me to help rinse harsh astringent chemicals out of someone’s head, find rollers for perms and basically wipe their ass because they made the magic happen.

I lived for the brief moments where I went to hide in the back room. The washer and dryer were kept there; it had been the same room as the employee break room. The only place where a client dared not enter and break the sanctity of my five minutes of peace and quiet. I used those five minutes wisely. I would light up my cigarette, take the dry towels out and fold them while puffing between folds. By the time my last puff came, the next load of towels was in the washing machine and the timer set for sixty minutes on the dryer. About the time when I would need another break.

Friday was a rinse and repeat of Thursday, only dialed down a bit. Most of the clients who came in were clients who came faithfully every six weeks for a cut and style. They would leave the chair full of beauty and confidence. A smile crossed their face. The way they tilted their head and turned side to side, said it all.

Saturdays were the best. On average only half of the beauticians worked on Saturdays. Those that did were more than likely to be a tad and I mean just a tad bit hung over from the night before. I know this to be true because four of the six that worked and including myself almost always went out together on Friday nights. We would pitch in Saturday morning and buy breakfast from the German Bakery two doors down. My favorite was the oatmeal. I loved how the steam would roll out of the cup up towards my puffy face and make it all feel better.

I loved my job. The pay sucked, but the perks like a free lunch, little gifts, and all the free hairstyles a girl could ever want, made up for no health insurance, no paid vacation and living by the seat of my pants trying to make ends meet. It was my first job in years where it was socially acceptable to wear high heels for three days out of the week. That job made me feel important.

The women treated me well for all my doting. At Christmas, I was flooded with gifts and cash. Sometimes while taking their lunch order, they told me to get something for myself. One lady brought me small tokens throughout the year to show her appreciation.

What kept me going back every day for over three years, had to have been the women who came in every week. I loved to hear their gossiping about one another while under the hood of the dryer. They all were hard of hearing and the noise of the dryer had them almost yelling while talking to one another. It was hard not to listen. The stories were of times long since passed and as recent as the Saturday before. A good mix of who drank too much at the New Year’s Party, and who was acting like a two-bit hussy at the children’s fundraiser. My favorite gossip, had been who was sleeping with who.

“Did you see Jean last night? She obviously had too much to drink.” Said Mrs. So and So.

“I heard she slept with Bill last night. You know Barbara is out of town visiting the kids?” Mrs. Busy Body added.

There was one lady who kept her lips pursed. None of the mightier-than-thou women would give her the time of day. A few would look down their noses at her. Mrs. McCandliss was a tough old broad. She never talked with the mightier-than-thou women while sitting in the smoking section waiting for her turn in the chair. She held her head high under the dryer and flipped through her magazine for forty minutes with disgust. It had been hard to tell if it had been the nineties fashion that upset her in Vogue magazine, or the conversations she overheard from the women sitting around her.

She was hard to get to know and held her secrets close, divulging only what she deemed necessary. I respected her bravado. She was, in my eyes, a bad ass. I tried to win her over and learn more about her back story but she left me with nothing but my imagination.

Mrs. McCandliss was a fashion statement all to herself. She always wore leopard skin leggings, before leggings were even a thing. Her chicken legs connected to her robust torso which she covered with bedazzled shirts that never made any sense.

Every week I waited on her hand and foot. I made sure to show the other women how much time I spent on her. She was somebody too. Her favorite dryer was always ready with a cold coke and a clean ashtray. I would try and make small talk only to be answered with a simple yes or no. Her voice sounded like the cracking of an old leather jacket on a chilly fall night.

The salon kept umbrellas up by the front door for those rainy days to help the women out to their cars so as not to deflate their coif. My job required me to be at the ready as they approached the front door. With one hand holding the door open and the other pushing the release button on the umbrella, I would escort them out to their cars.

One rainy Thursday, Mrs. McCandliss was preparing to leave. I took it as fate. I would escort her out to her car in the pouring rain under the protection of the umbrella. This would be my chance to make gains in our relationship. Perhaps she might have something to say without the ears of the other women to cast judgement. Perhaps a morsel of back story. She approached the front door while lighting her cigarette. With umbrella in hand, I opened the door. She just crossed the threshold as I pushed the button releasing the large umbrella. To my dismay, Mrs. McCandliss continued past me and proceeded to walk into the rain towards her car. Not daunted; I quickly followed.

“Mrs. McCandliss, wait. You don’t want to ruin your hair, do you?” I exclaimed jumping over puddles.

In one long drag of her cigarette, she consumed half of her smoke. She flung the remaining half a good five feet into the air. The sizzle of it hitting the rain-soaked pavement caused me to stop in my tracks. Her leopard skin legs kept moving and without turning back she gave me what I had been chasing for all that time, a piece of her. One of her hidden secrets.

“Honey, only two things melt in the rain, and I ain’t made of either of ‘em.” She kept walking.

“What’s that Mrs. McCandliss?” I was so eager.

“Sugar and shit.”

My entire body deflated. Standing in the pouring rain my brain tried to register what just transpired. I walked back into the salon soaked. My hair hung on my face like wet strands of yarn. Inside the salon, the mightier-than-thou women all laughed. They saw it coming.

“I could have told you that.” Mrs. Baxter laughed as I slumped down at my desk soaked like an overcooked lasagna noodle.

The mightier-than-thou women finished laughing then quickly reassured me it was not me but Mrs. McCandliss and her mean old stubbornness. Crushed and embarrassed, I continued with the rest of my day. However, the following week came and with it came Mrs. McCandliss for her standing appointment. She offered no apologies or remorse for her behavior. To her it was just another day, business as usual. When I brought her a refill on her Coke while she sat under the hood of the dryer, she looked up to me and gave the tiniest hint of a smile as she thanked me for the Coke. I took it for what it was. An old woman who, for whatever reason, held her secrets close. Perhaps she was a private person. Perhaps her life had been hard and through the course of it, it harden her too. Whatever the reason, in my mind she still had my respect; she was still a bad ass.