Hair

My hairdresser is an elderly German woman who arrived in New York City from Munich years and years ago.  She's heavy-set and serious, intentional and firm.  She kneads my scalp raw and pulls my damp tresses just a little too aggressively, but I wouldn't dream of going to anyone else.  Not in this city, at least.  She speaks very little English, and I'm not one for the study of any foreign language- god forbid German, yet we have long conversations somehow.  The other women who work in the salon are nice enough.  They wax poetic about love and taxes, men and the movies -- always things that I either know too much or too little about.

I go the the salon far too often.  My hair is as unhealthy as ever from the brassy blonde color that I like to maintain, but the salon is too good of an escape.  I don't know if one week I could bring myself to refrain from making the short journey to Midtown and plopping down in that supremely comfortable black leather chair.  In all honesty, probably not.  Addictions aren't just for Betty in the townhouse two over and her nasty barbiturate habit, I suppose.  I also know everyone who comes to this little hidden salon.

 Except for her.  She's elegant, to be sure.  French, from the tilt of her speech.  Wealthy, it would seem, yet not gauche.  She takes the chair next to me and proceeds to gently lift a notepad and pen from her purse.