I heard this phrase today during a conversation with a friend and immediately thought “that’s a great title for an essay!” So, having finished a very light dinner, and now enjoying a cup of decaf topped with Redi-Whip (my idea of a low-calorie dessert), I’ve settled in front of my “writing” laptop waiting for inspiration. However, since my Muse, Richard, presents as a man, there’s no telling what kind of inspiration he will send my way.
The phrase “at the beauty parlor” is reminiscent, at least to me, of years bygone. Years when my grandmother and then my mother went to the beauty parlor once a week, every week, for their entire adult lives. I Imagine that this female routine happened in cities all over our country, but I don’t know, never having lived above the Mason-Dixon line except for a very short stent in the nation’s capital. In the South of my upbringing, that weekly jaunt to the beauty parlor was right up there in importance with going to church on Sundays.
And here is an example of just how important the beauty parlor was to women of a certain generation.
When my mother was in her late 60’s she experienced symptoms of a mild stroke. This happened the morning of her weekly hair appointment. Did she call my father or 911? Of course not! Instead, she went to the beauty parlor, and then still not feeling all that great, ended up at her doctor’s office several hours later. Fortunately for my mother, her vanity delay didn’t result in any harm, but had she expired at the beauty parlor she would at least have entered the pearly gates with clean hair and a new do. I liken her experience to the mantra she instilled in me as a young girl – “always wear good underwear, because you never know when you might end up in the emergency room.” Nice undies and perfect hair – what else could be more important?
By the time I became an adult – at least chronologically – going to the beauty parlor every week, or even on any sort of regular basis, was passe’. Other than one time in my late 20’s when I got some sort of beauty wave treatment resulting in my hair looking like I had stuck my hand in a light socket, I didn’t darken the door of a beauty parlor for a couple of decades for anything other than a haircut.
Competing in a man’s world my entire professional life, a world which was, and probably still is, unkind to aging women, I found myself in my 40’s re-entering the world of the beauty parlor, now known by the more chic name of salon, in order to have my hair professionally colored. No gray hair for me, even after I left the business world.
And then along came Covid and closed every salon in the country (except for the one where Nancy Pelosi went). I mustn’t complain about favoritism, though, because Covid was a blessing for my hair. Or maybe I simply returned to my “roots”, no pun intended, remembering those hippie days of the late 60’s and early 70’s. I ditched the color, ditched the salon, and embraced long, silver hair. Yay me!
I will admit to switching my allegiances to a different sort of salon these days. Facials and pedicures have become habit-forming, providing a monthly respite and time for pampering and relaxation. Hopefully, if I ever feel some sort of medical event coming on I’ll have more sense than my mother and get my you-know-what to the nearest hospital.
In looking over what I’ve written, it’s clear Richard decided he didn’t want any part of talking about beauty parlors or salons. Smart man. If I ever decide to write about a barber shop, I’m sure he’ll lend his two-cents worth. But for this evening’s musings, all I needed was a good memory.
The picture I have posted along with this essay is of my mother, about the time she punted the ER for the beauty parlor. She looked “put together” until the day she died. She was, after all, a Southern lady.