To be coifed!
My hair is somewhat curly. Thus its growing length is not overly noticeable. But my counselor wants it to be styled in the manner of that young trollop in the park. Parted in the middle, the simple styling hung straight down, cut straight about the neck an inch or two below her ears, bangs festooned her forehead about an inch above her eyebrows.
***
“Yes, Mr. Warren,” the young girl seeming to repress a giggle. “The back room. Your counselor has made the arrangements.”
I follow to the back of the bustling salon. I receive some questioning glances, but in New York it is not completely uncommon for a man to benefit from the offerings of a woman’s domain. The girl leads me into a small room with the expected adjustable swivel chair. She points.
“It’s probably best you get out of that nice suit, Mr. Warren. The various hair formulas can be quite powerful and will stain.”
Why is it I am not alarmed?
She closes the door. The room is well mirrored and I cannot help looking at my five foot two inch frame, lithe but rapidly plumping where a guy does not normally plump. My curly hair is frumpily gathered atop my head, styling not a coveted attribute in a stodgy accounting department. When I pull up and out to straighten, I note it has indeed become long, as my counselor suggested. I have not given it much thought, with all the physical and emotional trauma of late. Guess a hair cut has not been at the top of my agenda... or so I justify the neglect.
The door opens. As I hoped, in steps a woman of maturity, the receptionist I found to be too young to understand the intended proceedings.
“I am Molly, Mr. Warren. Were you not advised to remove your suit?”
The voice is husky. The tone forceful. The look disapproving. Her stance, arms akimbo, one of instant authority.
“Ah... yes... well I’m just here to get my hair done.”
“As is everyone else. Disrobe. To your skivvies. Hair dye can be destructive to good clothing.”
“Hair dye? I’m here for some styling.”
“And that you shall have as well. Your counselor suggested you be made into a blond. Something about a style and shade you noted in the park. Tell me what it looked like... the style. Any particular shade of blond?”
This brings alarm. My hair is brown... dark brown. I arrived thinking any untoward efforts today could be unraveled by the time Monday morning work beckoned. But dyed as a blond?
“Ah... well if my counselor insists,” I am demure and once again mentally recite to myself the long agreement which covered the cost of acute medical care and this subsequent ‘counseling’.
I unbutton my suit jacket. The woman takes it and hangs it as I step out of my shoes and unbuckle my belt. She watches with intensity. She is a no nonsense women of some forty years. I will once again be challenged... and lose.
“I assume it can be washed out... the dye?”
No answer. She just points to the chair as I hand her my trousers.
“What was the style? Describe it for me.”
I do. She nods, commenting that the style has been prevalent of late due to some up and coming movie starlet.
“Take off your undershirt too. We’ll need to straighten your hair and that can get sloppy. So you’ll see why I need you out of that suit Mr. Warren. Powerful ingredients. Otherwise it’s easily done.”
Molly glances downward.
“What happened to your body, Mr. Warren? No hair on the chest, arms or legs...”
It will be a long appointment. My transformation begins.
***
I cannot believe it’s me! I am incredulous. Molly proves to be a magician! I stare into the various mirrors in combined excitement and embarrassment. My hair is a gaudy shade of blond. I have bangs. The curls of hair are now exceptionally straight and precisely cut in a straight line from the right jaw bone to the left.
“It’s termed a ‘page boy’,” Molly informs, her gaze intense in assessing her own work.
I cannot help thinking how effeminate I appear, the style complementing Nurse Sueann’s depilating efforts.