Today I finally realized why movies continue to get made about the gossip at barbershops, hair salons or gas stations. The fodder is better than anything that could be invented.
"I follow him around, about three car lengths, just to make sure he doesn't have a girlfriend," said a woman at a nail station across an aisle from my luxe barco-o-lounger salon chair. My eyes popped open, even as I tried to ignore the salacious comment. I couldn't help myself. The woman's voice was high-pitched and wobbly. Her shoulder length, chestnut-colored hair ended where her white, cotton long-sleeve shirt began. As I looked down at the rest of her body, she had knee-length kahkis and tan, woven wedges. "And those ankle bracelets, I got him one of those, just so I can track him down," she finished, then laughed, a cackle that bounced off the soft, white walls.
It was the last statement that got me. She wasn't forty, or fifty. The woman had to be in her mid-to-late seventies. The aesthetician lifted the woman's bony wrist, dark freckles dotting the wrinkled hand and wrist, excepting for the part covered by a trendy gold and brown man's watch.
As I sat there in my luxo-lounger, my back feeling like it has the hands of Goliath moving up and down my spine, I figured that women of all ages worry about men scatting around, not just the forty-year-old desperate somethings.
I closed my eyes, already descending back in to my bliss when it occurred to me she was only half kidding. The woman went on to talk about the women at the golf club, and how they'd be after her husband in a hot New York second if she weren't around.
TMI. My eyes popped open again, I started removing the lovely, lavendar-filled gloves that covered my parafin-slathered hands. She was killing my pre-mother's day groove. "But I'm here now," she continued, unabated. "But next year, when I turn eighty, they might not wait any longer. At least my finger nails will look good for our Mother's Day celebration." She turned to her left then, revealing a face as withered as an autumn leaf.
As I prepared to leave the previously quiet inner sanctum that was the salon, I wanted to tell the woman that if your pre-mother's prepping involves talk of fitting your husband with an ankle bracelet, not only must he be one hot geriatric, but to listen to her female intuition. Something is definitely afoot at the Circle K.
"I follow him around, about three car lengths, just to make sure he doesn't have a girlfriend," said a woman at a nail station across an aisle from my luxe barco-o-lounger salon chair. My eyes popped open, even as I tried to ignore the salacious comment. I couldn't help myself. The woman's voice was high-pitched and wobbly. Her shoulder length, chestnut-colored hair ended where her white, cotton long-sleeve shirt began. As I looked down at the rest of her body, she had knee-length kahkis and tan, woven wedges. "And those ankle bracelets, I got him one of those, just so I can track him down," she finished, then laughed, a cackle that bounced off the soft, white walls.
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| Oh, I don't know honey. The brown matches your coloring so much better..... |
As I sat there in my luxo-lounger, my back feeling like it has the hands of Goliath moving up and down my spine, I figured that women of all ages worry about men scatting around, not just the forty-year-old desperate somethings.
I closed my eyes, already descending back in to my bliss when it occurred to me she was only half kidding. The woman went on to talk about the women at the golf club, and how they'd be after her husband in a hot New York second if she weren't around.
TMI. My eyes popped open again, I started removing the lovely, lavendar-filled gloves that covered my parafin-slathered hands. She was killing my pre-mother's day groove. "But I'm here now," she continued, unabated. "But next year, when I turn eighty, they might not wait any longer. At least my finger nails will look good for our Mother's Day celebration." She turned to her left then, revealing a face as withered as an autumn leaf.
As I prepared to leave the previously quiet inner sanctum that was the salon, I wanted to tell the woman that if your pre-mother's prepping involves talk of fitting your husband with an ankle bracelet, not only must he be one hot geriatric, but to listen to her female intuition. Something is definitely afoot at the Circle K.
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