Antonio

By: Gabriela Yareliz

The salon was packed with women ready to go on vacation. Today was the day the Brooklyn housewives decided to make a salon stop to make sure they look absolutely fabulous on their trips. There was perfume everywhere and sparkling jewelry sounding like chimes. In one chair, an elderly woman was itching for her foils to be done so she could sit outside and have a smoke. (Not advisable given how flammable the chemicals on her head are). One Greek lady doing only her roots was glued to her phone. They washed her hair, and she held it over her head like a phone addict wading in the ocean (you’ve seen those people at the beach). She went to the heat machines with it glued to her hand. She never looked up.

One woman was going on and on about her vacation to Maine and how much lobster she was going to eat. She didn’t eat for a week, she explained. She was deeply tanned, with freckles on her arms. She was elegantly wearing linen pants, and her gold bracelets would clink together every time she gestured to her stylist whose birthday it was. (They sang to him later).

The AC was blasting and the doors were open to let out the fumes. The espresso machine was going. Gossip was being whispered at reception. I decided it would be a no-phone time for me. I left my bag on a hook by the coat rack and closed my eyes and heard all of the stories being spoken loudly over the hair dryers and spraying hoses. Sometimes, I would open my eyes and stare at the blurry chandeliers with no glasses, everything sparkly and out of focus.

“It’s too hot,” one woman complained deciding to engage with me as I waited for my stylist who was multitasking and doing the most (we were all making sacrifices to make sure we all got what we needed on this overbooked summer day). “I was in Jersey yesterday, and it poured. Something impressive,” she said sliding her sunglasses down over her face and pursing her lips. She was very chic and desperate to talk to someone, apparently, because she chose me, in my Powerpuff Girl t-shirt. Maybe all my lipgloss had made me look more put together than I thought. I smiled (still blind-ish without my glasses) and nodded along as she proceeded to pull up the weather forecast on her phone. She read it out loud to me, occasionally flipping the phone around to show me as if somehow I didn’t believe her. I affirmed her and gave her the solidarity she was looking for.

A woman to our right was going off about her husband Antonio. Me and my chic weather lady decided Antonio was more interesting than a fickle unreliable forecast. We held silence as we heard about his shady behavior. We glanced at each other in disapproval of Antonio, in silent solidarity with the indiscrete lady. What are salons for if not for random free therapy, though? Typically, my stylist and I go off about the failed leadership of the city and corrupt judicial system. Not as interesting as Antonio, but you know, it’s a time to go off over the roar of the heat being blasted into your scalp.

Chandeliers glistened like sweat and glittery sunscreen. Cappuccinos and sparkling water flowed. Stories about mother-in-laws and Antonio’s failings in Brooklyn Italian New York accents flowed harder. “F***ing Antonio,” the woman to our right said loudly over the wiggling blow dryer in her sympathetic stylist’s hand. Fabulous and scathing like a true New Yorker.

It was a solid day inaugurating summer. Antonio, watch out. The Brooklyn ladies disapprove. They disapprove hard.