My son, Clay, was young, a teenage boy, when we headed to one of Seattle’s finest hair salons. I’d agreed to give the owner tarot readings in exchange for appointments but regretted the decision almost immediately. I hadn’t realized what it meant to be privy to the inner workings of a salon filled with drama, love affairs and a stress driven owner. I was on the verge of calling it off when I took my son in.
A young stylist wearing a short skirt and broad smile took Clay to the shampoo basin, where she caressed his head into a lather of suds, then rinsed and toweled him off.
This was not treatment he was used to, having been given cuts by yours truly, until I got distracted one day and clipped his ear. After which, he burst from the house, declaring our hair cutting relationship complete and final forever! There was no going back and no forgiveness. It was over.
His young stylist squared his shoulders to the mirror pulling strands of hair skyward, while lifting and stroking fringe near the base of his neck. Clay purred beneath the attention, not knowing that his delights had only begun. The stylist then pulled him back against her enormous breasts where he released a long low sigh, as if resting on great celestial cushions. And the more she cut, the more he relaxed, his smile spreading slow and sweet, like honey on toast. And when she finished, she brushed little piles of his blonde hair from the shelf of her breasts. “There you go sweetie, you’re all done.”
He was a boy feeling handsome and cared for as we made our way to the car, his attitude erasing any resentment I’d felt.
“Mom, I really liked that haircut. I’m pretty sure I’d like to come back.”
I smiled, a mama’s insightful smile. “I thought you might.”