Brush with Glamour

            The glamour world rushes in.  I did not expect that in Freeland.

            The door opens with a jingle, and I am transported from the country into the city.  The shelves are well-stocked, the lighting is bright, and the air practically sings with glitz.  I am in over my head.

            All I wanted was a haircut.  Instead of going the economy route as usual, I settled on the easiest way:  dial the first number that came up on my Google search (Freeland, WA beauty shops).  Studio A could take me today (the day before Easter) so here I am.

            For my nineteen years in northwest Kansas, I had the same beautician, who operated out of her remodeled garage.  Ten dollars for a cut, forty for a perm:  I’m not kidding.  Since moving to the island, I have relied on Super Cuts.  But I don’t feel like driving to Oak Harbor this time, and I really cannot stand my overgrown locks another second.

            I have never, ever set foot in a spa, but evidently that is where I am today.  The young woman who is to cut my hair gives me a tour:  tanning beds, nail salon, permanent make-up room.  And then she leads me to her chair, and we discuss my hair. 

            There isn’t much to say.  I like it short and easy to take care of.  No perm, no color.  Keep it out of my eyes but cover my ears.  Yes, why not something a little different as long as it’s easy.

            She’s a nice person who clearly enjoys her job.  When she asks me what my plans are for tomorrow, and I say playing my flute for two services at church, she blanches and changes the subject.  Clearly that is not the answer she expected.

            Forty minutes later, my hair has been washed, snipped, trimmed, and styled.  I don’t recognize myself, but that’s okay since I will never, ever in my wildest dreams be able to duplicate what she has just done.  Dutifully, I purchase a few travel-size items and pay my bill:  way more than I usually pay but far less than I feared.   I even make an appointment for another cut eight weeks down the road.

            The door’s jingle signals my entrance back into my real world:  rural life on a scenic island.  I feel a little out of place with my new hairdo (which, fortunately, styles right back to what I’m used to the next morning).  I guess you could say I’ve survived my brush with glamour.