The Adjusted Normal, 31. A Disinfected Hair Cut.
After having planned to go in March, then pushing it to April, then intending to go in June, I have finally returned to the hair dresser's.
Seven months after the last trip to the scissors, my hair had gone rogue. For the last month and a half, I've had to pin it up with a hair comb. My bangs had grown down to my lips, and one day that I forgot to put mousse in my hair, they became a perpetual curtain. Frustrated, I grabbed the kitchen scissors, and lopped off enough to leave my eyes clear of fur.
My hair dresser accepts walk-ins without any problem. I check out the time of day she has few people, walk in, and ask if she can cut my hair, or cut and color my hair if I'm feeling adventurous and don't mind spending over an hour with a towel wrapped around my upper body, drying any drops that might dribble down my neck.
But the devil virus has changed things. Already, I had been planning to just drop in yesterday afternoon, after classes, but then I had a thought. What if, even with the new normal, now she doesn't accept walk-ins? So, I found her phone number and called. It's a good thing I did, otherwise I would have wasted a day.
Now, she only accepts clients by appointment. And she didn't have any room yesterday, so I had to go today. Okay. So far, no problem. After my last class this afternoon, I drove into town and parked close to the salon. I approached the door, but through the glass, I could see the interior was empty. I pulled at the door; it didn't move. I pushed. It was locked. I peered some more. Perhaps she started later in the afternoon now and hadn't arrived yet?
Then, at the back, I saw her come out of a door. She motioned to me to wait. I did. After a couple of minutes, she came to the door and unlocked it. We greeted each other, I stepped in, and she told me to stop right there. She locked the door behind me, took up a large roll of plastic wrap, and asked me for my purse. I gave it to her. She proceded to wrap it up well. I looked around and saw a small couch wrapped in plastic. So was a chair. The front of the counter was also wrapped.
She put down the purse and apologized, but those were the new rules. She took my glasses and hair comb and put them on a tray. She put hand sanitizer on my hands, and wrapped a plastic bib around my neck, explaining that the rubber mat I was standing on had alcohol to clean the bottom of my shoes.
She led me to the chair to wash my hair. I couldn't take my mask off (!), and she was wearing one, as well as gloves. Suddenly, I was glad the month's finances hadn't allowed me to color my hair blue. I would have spent more time with the mask on than I would have wanted to be. She put a strange, thin, black fabric around my shoulders, and I leaned back and she washed my hair, explaining that the black fabric thingies were new disposable towels, just like the bib. Everything now had to be either sterilized or thrown out. Only one person could be attended to at any one time. Every comb, brush, pince, hair dryer adapter, bobby pin, everything, had to be sterilized after each customer.
Our talk started to drift to other things, and she quickly put paid to my treasonous hair. Click, click, and locks fell away. Pull the comb through the hair, lift the lock, snip the ends. Within a few minutes, the length was manageable once more. Then, she took up the hairdryer with the diffuser, after pulling mousse through the hair, and quickly, the halo around my head became recognizable. A few final touches with a narrow brush, and I was done. She took a vacuum cleaner, and pulled up all the rebellious hair from the floor around the swivel chair. She explained to me that as soon as I left, she would disinfect every place I had been in the salon, and get ready for the next client.
I paid and recovered my purse, glasses, and hair comb. We wished each other good luck, and I stepped outside, took off my mask (the street was empty), and she locked the door behind me.
This is the new normal at the hair dresser's. It's a good thing I never had the habit of going very often.
Life continues.
Seven months after the last trip to the scissors, my hair had gone rogue. For the last month and a half, I've had to pin it up with a hair comb. My bangs had grown down to my lips, and one day that I forgot to put mousse in my hair, they became a perpetual curtain. Frustrated, I grabbed the kitchen scissors, and lopped off enough to leave my eyes clear of fur.
My hair dresser accepts walk-ins without any problem. I check out the time of day she has few people, walk in, and ask if she can cut my hair, or cut and color my hair if I'm feeling adventurous and don't mind spending over an hour with a towel wrapped around my upper body, drying any drops that might dribble down my neck.
But the devil virus has changed things. Already, I had been planning to just drop in yesterday afternoon, after classes, but then I had a thought. What if, even with the new normal, now she doesn't accept walk-ins? So, I found her phone number and called. It's a good thing I did, otherwise I would have wasted a day.
Now, she only accepts clients by appointment. And she didn't have any room yesterday, so I had to go today. Okay. So far, no problem. After my last class this afternoon, I drove into town and parked close to the salon. I approached the door, but through the glass, I could see the interior was empty. I pulled at the door; it didn't move. I pushed. It was locked. I peered some more. Perhaps she started later in the afternoon now and hadn't arrived yet?
Then, at the back, I saw her come out of a door. She motioned to me to wait. I did. After a couple of minutes, she came to the door and unlocked it. We greeted each other, I stepped in, and she told me to stop right there. She locked the door behind me, took up a large roll of plastic wrap, and asked me for my purse. I gave it to her. She proceded to wrap it up well. I looked around and saw a small couch wrapped in plastic. So was a chair. The front of the counter was also wrapped.
She put down the purse and apologized, but those were the new rules. She took my glasses and hair comb and put them on a tray. She put hand sanitizer on my hands, and wrapped a plastic bib around my neck, explaining that the rubber mat I was standing on had alcohol to clean the bottom of my shoes.
She led me to the chair to wash my hair. I couldn't take my mask off (!), and she was wearing one, as well as gloves. Suddenly, I was glad the month's finances hadn't allowed me to color my hair blue. I would have spent more time with the mask on than I would have wanted to be. She put a strange, thin, black fabric around my shoulders, and I leaned back and she washed my hair, explaining that the black fabric thingies were new disposable towels, just like the bib. Everything now had to be either sterilized or thrown out. Only one person could be attended to at any one time. Every comb, brush, pince, hair dryer adapter, bobby pin, everything, had to be sterilized after each customer.
Our talk started to drift to other things, and she quickly put paid to my treasonous hair. Click, click, and locks fell away. Pull the comb through the hair, lift the lock, snip the ends. Within a few minutes, the length was manageable once more. Then, she took up the hairdryer with the diffuser, after pulling mousse through the hair, and quickly, the halo around my head became recognizable. A few final touches with a narrow brush, and I was done. She took a vacuum cleaner, and pulled up all the rebellious hair from the floor around the swivel chair. She explained to me that as soon as I left, she would disinfect every place I had been in the salon, and get ready for the next client.
I paid and recovered my purse, glasses, and hair comb. We wished each other good luck, and I stepped outside, took off my mask (the street was empty), and she locked the door behind me.
This is the new normal at the hair dresser's. It's a good thing I never had the habit of going very often.
Life continues.
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