Bouffant

Bouffant is about a trip to the hair salon from a non-girly perspective. Okay, maybe it's a little girly.

 

         

In downtown Sylvania, – the whole street of it – there is a tall, brick building that stands with its back straight and chest out. It looks out like an overconfident teen as it looms over small shops with names like the Country Mouse and the Apple Tree. Hunched over with age, they squat like old women, chatting with each other in a line up and down the street about the affairs of the town. Pulling into the parking lot behind the building, I looked up at the zigzagging escape ladder that weaves up, pointing to a banner that hugs the building. “Rêvé has remodeled . . . Come check us out!”

            I walked in the door and passed through a hallway decorated with pictures of women wearing heavy makeup and modeling hairstyles that made them look remarkably like a pineapple, a feather duster, and a palm tree, respectively. Around the corner ahead, I arrived at the front desk, an oval that encircled and captured two women, one who was on the phone, the other staring at the computer screen until she looked up at me, knowingly, as though the computer had told her that I would walk up to her at the desk at that exact moment. “Checking in?”

            “Yes, I have a 12:45 appointment with Angie.”

            She peered into the computer and nodded. “Mackenzie Duffy?”

            “Yep.” She clicked a button that sent some form of notification shooting off to other computers and somehow let Angie know that I was there.

            “Okay, you’re all checked in. Angie’s on the third floor today. You can take the elevator to your left, and she’ll meet you up there.”

            I pushed the button and waited as the elevator hummed down. I took in the changes to the first floor of the salon. The building was an old warehouse, and Rêvé had started off using the first floor as a spa and seating area and the second floor as the hairstyling area. Now, they had remodeled the first floor and renovated the third floor for use as another hairstyling level. Before, the first level had four couches hunched back to back, prepared to duel. Two little niches served for the manicure station, and behind a curtained doorway was where the pedicure station was situated. Now, the spa was still in its place under the stairs, with a large door that simply said in big, fancy letters, “Spa.” But the manicure and pedicure stations were gone, as were the yellow couches. Now, there was a bar with a fancy espresso machine and rows of syrup to flavor whatever kind of coffee I wanted them to make for me, and glass pitchers of water with lemons floating in them. Instead of the couches, they had tables with chairs so people could sit and chat over espresso and lemon water. There were two cozy yellow couches tucked to the side, for more intimate “girl talk” while waiting for a stylist to come.  

            Up a staircase shaped like an L, was the first actual level of hairstyling. Two overstuffed loveseats sat facing one another, with a table in front of them covered in magazines so that they could gossip back and forth about TomKat’s baby. Mirrors lined both walls, reflecting each other in an ongoing battle that stretched to infinity. Small glass vases mingled with the mirrors, a fresh, single stem daffodil standing gracefully in the vase. The chairs weren’t fastened to the floor, and didn’t bear much resemblance to a stylist chair at all. They were wooden, but curved to warmly embrace the hairstylee. In a corner was a table with chairs on wheels with the old-fashioned helmets that looked like sieves where people wrapped up in aluminum foil, looking much like characters from a bad horror movie about robots taking over the world, sat with people with hair dye paste for hair. Impressed as I was with the second floor, I couldn’t wait to see what the third floor would look like. 

“Hummmm.” The doors opened, and I stepped into the elevator. The doors closed with a soft “shoooo” and the elevator gently ascended. I was at once overpowered by the shiny stainless steel surrounding me, giving me the false hope that I was actually in a very large room and not just a tiny box on cables. I looked up at the ceiling and I was staring back at myself. My eyes sparkled in the lighting, and my hair looked great, of course. It never fails that on the day that I am scheduled to get my haircut, every strand of hair on my head unanimously votes to pick that day to look as great as possible. It knows, from the day I call and make my appointment, greeted by a robotic voice that mimics human cheeriness with an uncanny resemblance, “Thank-you-for-calling . . . Rêvé!” and listen to the voice describe spa treatments with names like vichy that involve seaweed, treatments that sounded more like preparations for cooking a fish than cleansing a human. Every strand of hair on my head knew its fate, and the exact doomsday. And every strand wanted to go out fighting, spending every day up until the day of my haircut absorbing dust particles from places I’ve never even been, parting in ways that it really oughtn’t, and frizzling in every wave of air from the hairdryer as if it were gasping for water in the desert. Then, as though it could see into the future, on the day of my haircut, my hair soaks up the shampoo, gleans from the conditioner, and basks in the rush of the hairdryer, falling gracefully into place as I dry my hair. At least I could always predict when I would have a good hair day. 

In the elevator, I felt like I was entering a science fiction film and would walk onto the third floor and be in the future. The door opened with another “shoooo,” and I stepped onto the third floor. I walked off the elevator I thought I was actually in the future. The room was a vibrant, happy white – if white can, in fact, be happy. There was a couch in the middle of the room, a bright orange the shade of Ernie’s skin - Ernie from Sesame Street, naturally. On my way over to the couch, I caught a peek of the bathroom. The sink was clear, so that it gave the illusion of water freely floating in the air. I sat down on the Ernie orange couch and looked up at the giant television on the wall that constantly plays commercials for hair products where stylists use the product to mess someone’s hair up so they look like they just rolled out of bed, or massage glop into a woman’s hair and pull her hair up so that her layers fan out on top of her head like a peacock. Instead of the usual white table and plastic chairs for the manicure stations, there were cozy benches with tall backs for a more intimate French manicure. Giant light bulbs shaped like teardrops fell from the ceiling and hang, suspended, over tables where women get manicures.

Angie, my hairstylist – yes, I do mean my hairstylist, you get to claim them when you call – waved to me and told me to take a seat in her chair while she walked a client downstairs. The chairs were the same movable ones as downstairs, and I plopped down in front of the mirror. Next to the mirror I could see out a window and look at downtown Sylvania’s rooftops. The day was gloomy and gray. I looked at my reflection and tried to think of what I wanted to do with my hair. On a non-haircut day, my hair hung lifelessly, dragging my face down and making me look gloomy, like a winter day with no snow, and no sun. My face looked just like Toledo, Ohio in January. February, too. I wanted a happier haircut, like the first day of spring, when the tulips nudged their way through the dirt and popped through with a cheery, “Hello, Toledo. Did you miss me? Of course you did.”

Angie emerged from the elevator. Her hair was always short, but somehow, always different. One time, her hair would be a little longer, and slightly curly. Today, her bangs were cut at an angle across her forehead, and her color was a shimmering shade of blonde. I was always impressed by the number of variations she could create on the bob. She was in her late twenties, with a piercing below her lip. The staff was allowed to wear casual clothes, so Angie was wearing blue jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a sparkly, silver belt that matched her silver watch. She smiled as she walked over. “Well, hello, Miss Mackenzie. How are you?”

As she talked, she immediately started playing with my hair, fluffing it up so she could see where the layers fell. “So, what are we doing today?”

“Well, I like the length, but it’s just kind of blah right now. I think it’s also because it’s February. I just want something fun.”

“Any ideas?”

“Nope, whatever you think will look good.” I had this theory on haircuts. Hairstylists go to school and learn how to cut people’s hair according to the shape of the person’s head. They also spend every day cutting people’s hair, seeing what works and what doesn’t. So long as my hairstylist isn’t one who willingly lets people walk out the door with a mullet, they are more trustworthy than I am at selecting a hairstyle. Angie clapped her hands and smiled. “Oh, yay, I get to play.”

She led me over to the sinks, which stood in a row at the back of the room. I sat down and leaned back, and as I rested my head on the sink ledge, Angie leaned over. “Is the sink down low enough? The sinks actually move now instead of the chairs.”

Staring up at the ceiling, I missed the poster that hung on the wall on the second floor across from the sinks. It was a poster of leading actresses of black and white movies, most of whom I didn’t recognize. One was in a Tarzan movie, a few others in Charlie’s Angels films. Barbara Streisand was on there five times. Each woman had a bouffant or some other hairstyle that pouffed up. At the bottom of the poster it said, “Make it BIG!” I always thought it a very friendly tribute to hairstyles of days gone by in a place so futuristic.

And everything was futuristic; the whole room even smelled like the future. Well, of the future hairstyles yet to be created. There was the smell of fancy shampoo, the smell of freshly cut hair, and the inescapable smell of hair products used to make the hair do things it will only do for a trained professional.

Angie combed my hair, quickly finding my hair’s natural part. That was the main reason I had been coming to Angie for so long. Of all of the hairstylists I’ve gone to, she was the first to accept it when I told her my hair’s quirky habits and stubbornness in insisting that it part on the left side of my head, right there, and not an inch to either side. Every other stylist puffed out their chest with a look like, “Stubborn part? It’s no match for me!” and they would furiously try to part it on the right side. A lot of good hairstylists were lost that way. But Angie, she sized up my hair, listened to me tell her that it was a stubborn part, and accepted it with a knowing nod.

I don’t talk when I’m getting my haircut; I get so wrapped up in watching every snip of the scissors and seeing the strands of hair drop to the floor. Angie always stares at my hair like a sculptor, which is what she is, and the way in which she concentrates makes me feel like I should give her complete silence out of respect for her art. Instead, I watched her cut my hair, or watch other people get their hair cut. A woman sat in a chair a couple of mirrors down from me. She started explaining what she wanted to her stylist. She was a large woman, with big, brown hair. Not quite a bouffant, but dangerously close. Her hair was a dark brown with subtle blonde highlights. “I’m really not happy with the color. I wanted it dark, with visible streaks. Not subtle. I came in last time and explained what I wanted, and the woman said she’d cover them so that they wouldn’t change, but then she colored the hair anyway. It took me a long time to get it where I wanted it, and I’m really angry right now.”

 Angie looked over at the woman for a second, then looked at me in the mirror. We exchanged a small smile, like between friends. Which is what we were. Friends can’t get anymore intimate then playing with one another’s hair, though the relationship was one-sided.

Another hairstylist was sweeping the floor. As she swept all of my hair up, Angie politely thanked her, stepping out of the way. I then watched in amazement as the woman swept the pile of hair up to the wall where there was a vent, flipped a switch with her foot, and the wall sucked up the hair. Talk about hair styling in the future, that was impressive. Seeing all of my hair gathered together, I could also feel how much lighter my head felt. I felt as though I had just shirked off a month of weight. A month of history. The hair that disappeared into the wall had been through whatever I had been through. School, work, every bit of stress. Gone. What a therapeutic, literal way to throw out the past. When Angie was done cutting my hair, I would be left with freshly cut hair, like a clean slate. How fitting in a place decorated like the future to throw out my past. She looked at me. “So, what do you think so far?”

“It already feels a lot better.”

Angie dried my hair; she didn’t ask about hair spray. She already knew the answer in the same way that she knew that I was a wash-and-go kind of girl. She was just that good. Angie put down the scissors and stood behind me. “Beautiful,” she declared.

She spun me around and handed me a mirror so I could see the back of my head. Yup, there was hair there. Shiny, healthy, ready to face the world anew hair. Maybe it was a little too fluffed up. Maybe I didn’t quite like where the bangs fell. It’s a natural feeling of any woman who gets her hair cut that, whether she likes the cut or not, she can’t truly embrace it until she’s washed her hair and styled it herself. Perfectly natural. But as far as I could see into the future, the me of tomorrow would love this haircut. “It looks great.”

“You’re a new woman.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

Angie walked me downstairs, handed my sheet to the secretary, still trapped behind the desk, and looked at me. We hugged, like old friends. “Well, Miss Mackenzie, thank you, and I’ll see you the next time you come in.”

“Of course.”

I paid for my haircut, sliding my tip into the manila envelope. I wrote a message for Angie. “Thank you for another great haircut.” Slipping it into the special tip slot built into the desk, I walked out the door and back into downtown Sylvania, feeling refreshed, like I had just seen into the future, and it looked bright and shiny.