Conquering Vertigo

Nice Cuts, Part Deux

Setting up the story, Part the First:

The intersection of Union and Fillmore streets in San Francisco is a prime pedestrian junction. Not only is it trafficked by most denizens of the city, visitors hang out here, too.

Harrison Ford and Calista Flockheart were seen here recently, as were Robert Redford and an unnamed companion.

It's a jam-packed parking nightmare, with drivers searching desperately for street parking then running back an hour later to put more quarters in the meters. The "meter maids" are merciless. Better to interrupt whatever you're doing and dash back to add more quarters, than risk the $50 parking ticket.

This congested center of a small universe also is the basic location of the hair salon I'm trying out: Nice Cuts, $15.


Setting up the story, Part the Second:
I'm a natural blonde. This shows itself in many forms, not simply the color of my hair.

The bright white blonde of my childhood became platinum in my twenties and then champagne-ish in my thirties. Still blonde, still au natural, but a little darker.

During the winter of my 39th year, my beloved hair stylist said, "Ah, those bright summertime highlights are fading. You know what we should do? We should give you a few highlights until summer's sun can bring them back naturally."

No, no, I demurred. No chemicals for me.

"Thirty strands," she urged. "Let me just lighten 30 strands of hair -- it's not adding color - you're not coloring your hair, we're just stripping a few strands so the summer blonde shines through. You don't like it, I don't charge you."

What's 30 strands, I thought, and I succumbed. So, for the past two years, I have gone in once a winter for a slight sprinkling of highlights throughout my hair. Let me rush to say - and don't get in my way or you'll be run over - that I'm still a natural blond. And that brightness in summer is absolutely real. It's just that in the winter-time I need a little help to combat my version of Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Setting up the story, Part the Third:
If you've read the previous blog, "Nice Cuts," you'll know of my search for a San Francisco hair salon I could call my own. This is what happened after I sat down in the chair, and the nice Korean woman - Wanda - started playing with my hair.


Today's blog:
As Wanda began to talk about the hair cut, she asked me if I ever had highlights. I said what you now know: yes, a light sprinkling once a year. Would you like them now, she asked? I said yes, determined to try not just her cutting skills, but her "thirty strands in the foil" skills.

My highlights work like this -- along the crown and forehead, the stylist selects a few scattered strands of hair, paints them with a gentle compound similar to bleach, and wraps them in foil for a few minutes.

My job is to sit quietly, read a newspaper, sip my coffee, etc.

So, I'm sitting in the chair, reading the paper, wearing the black synthetic cape they always put around you, and sporting the little foil wrappers in my hair. I resemble a cooking experiment gone awry, or perhaps an Iowan afraid the aliens are going to read her thoughts. But, who's going to see me? I'm safely ensconsed in the stylist's chair; I'm supposed to look like this.

Suddenly, I realize it's time to feed the parking meter. I look up, startled, at the clock on the wall. Wanda notices me and says, "No, no, ten more minutes."
I say, "No, it's the parking meter, I think I'm out of time."

Wanda reacts like a native San Franciscan. She pulls a handful of quarters out of her pants pocket and rushes to the door. "Are you parked out front!?!" she asks frantically. "Which car -- I feed your meter!!"

I jump up, throwing the paper in my seat. "I'm around the corner and two blocks away. Do you know what a Nissan Pathfinder looks like?"

"No!" she yells, pouring quarters in my cupped hands, pushing me towards the door. "Run! Hurry! Feed meter! Go! Go! Go!"

I race out of the salon and onto the crowded sidewalk. The black salon cape flaps around my running body as the cold February sunlight bounces off the aluminum foil in my hair.

A man in the northbound crosswalk at Union and Fillmore shouts, "Feeding the meter?!"
"Yes!" I reply without stopping.
"Hurry!" he urges me.

I reach the Pathfinder with two minutes to spare.

The walk back to the salon was an excercise in nonchalance.
The caped lady with the tin foil hair, sashaying past her pierced, tatooed and botoxed neighbors.
As I re-entered the salon, spontaneous applause broke out, and Wanda laughed, "Only in San Francisco, huh, lady?"

posted by Woman In Love @ 11:55 PM