Great Clips

Did you ever get high and go get a haircut? Maybe you might eat some crazy snacks or watch a really unfunny movie, but that would be it. And for some people, a poorly executed love connection might occur. I realize that good judgment is the one of the first things to go when you abuse drugs, but everyone wants to look their best, even a junkie. Getting a new hair style, however, doesn’t really go great with drug abuse.

I should have told that to the lady sitting across from me at the salon yesterday. I noticed her right away when I checked in at the front counter and then sat on one of the chairs in the waiting area. She was sitting on the sofa near me, talking on her cell phone very quietly. The reason I noticed her was that her hair looked like it had been fixed by a swarm of feral cats. Her hair was long, mid back length, with really obviously streaky highlights. That wasn't what made it stand out; it stood out because it literally stood out in every direction on the top of her head. Extreme bed head, complete with tangles and knots and general rats' nesty appearance. She had what I assume was a banana clip in it, which is never a good thing, and her bangs stuck up at odd angles from her forehead. She wore black skinny jeans, black and turquoise Nikes, and a turquoise t-shirt, none of which fit her extremely thin frame with distended empty belly very well. I did give her extra points for her matchiness.

She not only talked on the phone, she also cried. Only she didn’t look unhappy. She didn’t even look like she was having an allergy attack. I don’t think she even knew she was crying. After she finished her call, she stood up abruptly and ran to the bathroom. And I thought, wow, she looks like she is on crack or something.

I walked back with my hair dresser to her station and sat down, waiting for her mix my color. I looked around and realized that the crack head was now over at the shampoo bowl. Her head was tilted back while the girl shampooed her hair, and next to her ear was, again, her cell phone. I accidentally made eye contact with the shampoo girl and gave her a look that said, Really? On the phone while getting her hair shampooed? And she gave me a look back that said, It happens more than you think. What can you do? If I were shampooing that druggie, I would oops a daisy some water all over that Motorola.

I looked out the window, in the opposite direction from the shampoo bowl area, while my stylist coated all my gray spots with brown goop, so I didn’t notice that the stoned woman was seated directly across from me. The salon has stations for the stylists with double sided mirrors hanging from the ceiling like dividers, so it is very open and airy. It also made it impossible not to gawk at the woman who no longer was on the phone but was now very comfortable and relaxed in the chair. Her stylist began to trim her split ends while mine continued painting my head and making small talk. Finally, I had to interrupt her.

“Is that woman on drugs?” I said louder than socially appropriate. We both stared at the woman who was leaning farther forward in her seat, her eyes closed.

My hair dresser looked at her and said,” Oh yeah. She’s usually like that. If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll fall out of her chair.”

“That would be the greatest!” I said. “I need something funny to write about.”

We stopped talking and just watched her for a little while. Every so often, her eyes would open half way and then roll back in her head before she closed her lids again.

“What do you think she’s on?” I asked.

“I am pretty sure she uses pain killers,” my hair stylist said.

“I don’t know. That giant cold sore screams meth to me,” I replied.

“You’re probably right,” she agreed. “That would explain her skinniness too. I wish I had some meth to get that thin.”

“No you don’t, look at her. She’s probably nineteen but she looks forty-nine. That thin doesn’t make up for the face. Kudos to her, though, for caring enough to get her hair done.”

“I know, right? You would think if she had an extra hundred bucks, it would not be spent on highlights.”

Before I knew it, her hair was all cut and blown straight, and from the back, you would have never known what a used-up hag she was. She stumbled out her chair and tried to pick up her purse and her jacket, which was no walk in the park for her, let me tell you. She shuffled back to the front counter to check out and then get in her car and drive away.

“Wow, you don’t see that every day,” I remarked to my hair dresser.

“No, you don’t. It’s usually not that interesting in here. Usually if we have a little craziness, it's when someone yells because they don't like their haircut. It doesn't happen often.”

“I’m disappointed she didn’t fall out of her chair, though,” I said.

“Me too,” she said.