Years ago, I did what you’re supposed
to do when looking for a hairdresser: I turned to the well-turned out lady in
my class at the YMCA and asked her where she got her hair done.
My previous guy had suddenly passed on
to that salon in the sky, very likely due to a cocaine habit I learned about
later. (Innocent that I am, I had often wondered why his pinkie nail was so much
longer than the rest)
I ended up at a shop owned by Albert
and Theresa, beginning with the wife and then switching to Albert when Theresa
took a job outside of hairdressing. I went to Albert at his own shop for
possibly five years, followed him to another where he rented a chair, then next
I was at his self-owned shop again, a fairly big operation offering a neighboring spa
for facials. He went from there to his present location, where he and his wife
again both rent chairs. He’s probably been giving me the same haircut for the
past 25 years while we chat about restaurants and our kids.
The two of them not only live in my
town, but only a few streets away, so they feel like neighbors. When he trimmed
my hair in May, we discussed getting new countertops for our kitchens. We’re
both in the midst of decision-making and both realize we’re not spring chickens
and that we’re not building the pyramids, or something that needs to last
through the ages.
But then he said, “Who knows how much longer we’ll be in our house?” and then Theresa joked about the possibility of winning the lottery and heading into the sunset.
A chill ran up my spine.
He texted me today to remind me of my
appointment on Saturday morning but there was a scary paragraph that followed:
“As of August 1st, we will
no long be accepting credit cards or debit cards. Cash or checks only. Sorry
for the inconvenience.”
I’d better start checking out the
ladies at the Y again.
