A Hairy Situation, Part I

Where I come from, people under the age of 75 do not employ others to wash and blow dry their hair. Cut it, yes. Color it, yes. But shampooing is taken care of in the shower and blow drying is done in front of the bathroom mirror all by one's lonesome.

I only bring this up because I was in the City today. The big, red apple of a city. The city that has reduced me to tears on more than one occasion, like the time six years ago when I trekked over the Henry Hudson Parkway and onto the Avenue of the Americas to vie for a spot at Time Magazine. Don't get me wrong--it wasn't the failed interview that made me weep. Oh, no. It was the lunch line at a Blimpie's sandwich shop, which was moving too fast for me to intervene before the lineman squirted oil and vinegar all over my salad. I did not want oil and vinegar. I did not want to be pushed along by the next person's tray into the cash register with a dripping, fatty mass of lettuce. I did not want to pay an exorbitant price for a fast food I didn't care to eat. Still, I fumbled through a wallet full of change in search of an elusive nickel while the pressure from the growing crowd bore into my right hip. All I wanted was to slow the goddamn down.

So, today in the window of a midtown salon, I saw a sign...

To Be Continued