Salon Gossip

I was at the hair salon for a trim. There was a mix-up in scheduling, so I had to wait much longer than expected.

As I was flipping through a dated fashion magazine, a woman who'd just had her hair done came out and sat near me, waiting for a ride. I didn't look at her directly, I only caught the brightness of her newly bleached hair out of the corner of my eye.

The hairdresser, still in the back room sweeping bleached hair trimmings off the floor, poked her head out to congratulate me on my recent marriage. I smiled politely and thanked her. The blonde sitting next to me was apparently intrigued.

"Congratulations! When did you get married?" she asked excitedly.

"May 4th," I said, still not really looking at her. I hate idle chit-chat.

"Oh, have you gotten your pictures back from the photographer yet?"

I paused for a moment, unsure how to answer. "Um... there was no photographer..."

For the first time, I looked at her face, trying to convey meaning with my eyes. But she looked puzzed, so I felt obliged to elaborate. "We just had our family members take photos for us."

Her expression lit up. "Oh, like those cameras you put on the tables?"

Tables? I thought. Clearly she's one of those girls. Someone with a static mental image of the perfect wedding... lots of people sitting at lots of tables, maybe even with assigned seating... and a professional photographer.

I examined her more carefully. She was very bleached, very tan, and very thin, in an artifical way that I didn't find attractive. She was dressed young in a bright red short-sleeved top, blue skinny bootcut jeans, and pointy black heels. But the crows feet and smile lines were telling. She was possibly my age and a little worse for wear, or possibly 10 years older and trying to hide it. The phrase "high maintenance girl" came to mind.

"No," I replied. "We had a very small wedding outdoors. There were no tables."

She looked puzzled again, but she tried to recover. "Oh, I love outdoor weddings, I think they're so spiritual. It would be so neat to get married on a beach in Hawaii or something." I smiled and nodded. "Where did you get married?" she continued.

"Bush Park," I said flatly. It's basically the city park here in Salem. Nice and big, very green with lots of trees, but certainly not faraway or exotic like Hawaii.

She looked puzzled again. She was obviously not following my description. Her vision of the perfect wedding differed too greatly from mine. She was done trying to pull conversation out of me, for which I was grateful.

Finally, a man arrived to pick her up. He sat down next to her, and they talked.

"Do you like my hair?" she beamed.

"Uh... yeah, looks great. It's so... bright!" he said.

She let out an exasperated sigh. "You're supposed to say something good!" she whined.

I started to tune out their conversation, but I continued to pick up little bits here and there.

"I'm going to get my tattoo done by Kat Von D," she said matter-of-factly. She eyed the man sitting next to her. "Do you know who that is?"

"Nope."

"She's like... one of the best tattoo artists in the world. You know, she's got that show on TV...?"

No trace of recognition in the man's face.

"She's dating Nikki Sixx." She waited for a reaction.

The man looked at her strangely. "She's dating a woman? Is she a lesbian?"

Again, the blonde looked confused. "No," she corrected, "she's dating Nikki Sixx."

"I heard you... but Nikki is a woman's name, isn't it...?" The man acted like he was pointing out the obvious.

"Oh my god, you don't know who Nikki Sixx is?!"

The man shook his head half-heartedly.

"He's like... a really famous rock star. Yeah. He's like... really famous."

I don't think the blonde could even name the band that made Nikki Sixx famous. She just knew his name, and knew he was somebody, and that was enough to draw her admiration.

I quietly flipped the pages of my magazine while the blonde and her male friend got up to leave. When she stood up, she looked even more thin and frail than I had realized.

Finally it was time for my haircut.

The hairdresser shared gossip with the other stylish while she prepared to shampoo my hair.

"You know she had cancer, right? Yeah... she was living in California, but her husband kicked her out. He couldn't deal with the illness I guess."

Then I felt horrible. Poor woman, no wonder she looks so thin. But my hairdresser wasn't done yet.

"Then she moved up here to stay with her mom, but her mom kicked her out too."

I didn't know what to think then. How could any mother turn her own daughter away when she's suffering from cancer?

"She's... high maintenance," the hairdresser continued.

The other stylist looked curious.

"Well... she's a stripper, if you couldn't tell..."

Ah, there's the magic word. Suddenly it all makes sense. She is one of those girls. The bleached hair, tanned skin, and ditzy conversation were all explained now. And the extreme thinness, which I still feel bad about.

I don't know why I love gossip so much. I don't wish other people ill, but I sure like to hear about their lives. Apparently the hair salon is a good place for gossip. Maybe I should get a trim more often.