By: Gabriela Yareliz
“Did I tell you about the drugs?” the elderly woman under the hair heat lamp asked her stylist after a long period of silence. Her stylist, an older Italian gentleman, moved the cart with the foils and bowl of creamy goop he had just placed on her head.
“Drugs?” He asked as he continued pushing the cart. I raised my eyebrows wondering where this was going.
“For the pancreatic cancer and melanoma,” she said.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said shaking his head grabbing his comb to clean it.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said flicking her wrist and waving him off.
In another corner, a girl that looked about twelve was being held down by her older sister and mother (a regular) for what looked to be her first eyebrow wax. “Sit still. The unibrow is coming off!” the mom declared triumphantly. The twelve year old squirmed. “I want a haircut,” she said emphatically, hoping someone would take her up on a change of plans.
“It’s pouring out, baby, take this,” one of the stylists said while she offered a plastic shower cap to a client whose blow out was threatened by the insane outdoor deluge.
There is something comforting about a neighborhood salon filled with faces you recognize, but few names, on a rainy afternoon.
GABRIELA YARELIZ 