I have to admit when I see myself in the mirror, under this lighting; it is gruesome. I've waited a little too long to get my color done, my hairdresser is slightly irritated. She looks at this strand, then that, and scurries off to mix up my color. I'm in the chair facing the mirror face to face with reality. She comes back calmer and starts the process of coloring and highlighting as we joke about the fact that my husband won't notice I've had my hair done until he balances the checkbook. I tried yellow polish on my toes last spring and after 2 weeks when he hadn't mentioned it, I pointed it out. "That's not the part of your anatomy I notice necessarily". Well, what can I say? At least he's honest.
We chat about celebrity gossip while she adds foil to my head and makes me look like an alien. I hold a magazine I can't read because I refuse to add reading glasses to this already macabre scene. Invariably a man comes in for a haircut and ends up in the chair next to mine. Oh yes, let's do complete the humiliation. Next up, dryer time. I can now sit in my living room and watch a movie beamed to my TV from space but the dryers at the salon have not changed since my mother wore a pill box hat. They haven't improved, they aren't smaller or more attractive, and they sure aren't quieter. That isn't always a bad thing, though; it keeps the little old lady next to me from trying to tell me about her cat in between dozing off.