A Hairy Situation, Part II

...So, I saw a sign in the window of a mid-town salon. The mid-week, mid-day price seemed like a good one, and I needed a hair cut. The price was ten dollars cheaper than their regular cut and blow dry rate listed next to the door, so I went in. They took me right away.

The hairdresser washed my hair in that relaxing, scalp massage kind of way. I closed my eyes with contentment. A little conditioning later, I was seated at her station. The first indication that something was amiss came when she started combing out my hair and applying some sort of product to the roots. I had never gotten a hair cut where they applied product before they applied the scissors. I got nervous.

Next thing I know, she had sectioned off the upper layers and was brandishing a blow dryer. She powered it on and went to work on my thin brown locks. Finally, it clicked. I was paying $30 to get my hitherto perfectly serviceable coif re-blown. There was no haircut involved. The special in the window said "Blow Dry Special." It did not say "Cut and Blow Dry." Idiot! I shouted in silence. Idiot!

Maybe $30 doesn't seem like a lot to some people, but the numbers swam around my head in 72 point font, bolded. I thought of all the things I could get for that amount of money, and all the things I routinely denied myself. The tears welled up in my eyes as I realized the City had gotten the best of me again. I looked down at the magazine in front of me and focused on "Get a Better Body in 30 Days" so that I could think about something other than the urge to cry.

It was too late to tell her I had actually wanted a cut and I was way too embarrassed to let on that I didn't know exactly what I was getting in the first place. It reminded me of being in Germany on my honeymoon, when I ordered something off a menu I could not understand and was told by the waitress--in gestures, not words--that I did not really want to order what I had, in fact, ordered.

"Yes," I told her. "That's what I want." I nodded my head vehemently. I had picked something and I was committed to it. I cared not a whit that I had no idea what would be arriving on my plate.

"Nein," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Nein," she said.

I stared at her as my face started to droop. My eyes filled up. I relented. "Okay." I pointed at The Partner with a sigh. "I'll have what he's having."

She left with the revised order and my tears overflowed. The Partner stared at me in undisguised amusement and patted my hand. I felt completely out of control. I could not be trusted to order my own meal. I was helpless in a strange land. I sat there with blurred vision and thought that I'd rather eat pig brain with a side of tongue than feel so incapable of making my own decisions.

Back on American soil yesterday, I realized that class can be as much of a barrier as language. None of the salons I ever knew about touted blow dry specials, sans cut, in their front window like it was some kind of big deal, so the concept was completely foreign to me. I should've figured it out, but I didn't. When the hairdresser put down the dryer and removed my black cape, I thanked her and handed her a tip. I trudged out the door into the bleak afternoon with hair that looked no better than if I had stepped out of my own bathroom for free.

The Partner was waiting for me at the hotel. This is the guy who consistently fails to notice any haircut I actually do end up getting. Yesterday in the bar of the Roosevelt, he said "Looks good." I faced him with eyes rolled high in my head beneath sharply raised brows. I slumped in my chair.

"Oh, God. What happened this time?" he asked, that knowing smile already pulling at his lips.