So, a Brazilian Blowout.
They give you bagels.
After a quick stop at Starbucks immediately following which I get into a row with a grouchy overheated traffic cop, I arrive at the salon. Right smack on time.
I am wearing Mr. Paul's Seabee denim maxi-dress from "South Pacific" which I always wear when I want to be comfortable or when I know people are going to be fiddling with my head and potentially making it look necessary in ways I will not want to muck up by squeezing it through the collar of my Rainbow Brite T-shirt.
I am complimented at once on my shirt. By several people. I refer them to the VA Rep costume shop. The salon is filled with hair stylists. All of whom are wearing a nice white summer capri. Must be a rule. I give Beth her cappuccino and meet the lady who is going to be blowing me out like a Brazilian. I have forgotten her name, but she was lovely and reminded me of Desiree Dabney and was dressed like a very very chic panda-penguin. I told her I really liked her skirt. She told me it was too tight.
My hair is washed. Beth is instructed to wash it to the point it's actually squeaky. So I lie there for a while. It feels great. Thanks to John Moon, now both my hair and my car have been washed six times in a row in under thirty minutes. Beth tells me a story about an enchanting lady in her life- referred to as either Queen or Princess Kathy (I can't remember which royal title- I didn't have my glasses on and I can't hear without my glasses). Queen Princess Kathy once refused reward money for returning someone's Golden Retriever. She has also been spotted sitting on a patio with a random wild bird off the streets perched on her finger and heard to say, "I think this finch has a fever." On top of that, she is an avid supporter of theater in Richmond. She is clearly awesome.
Sterling pops in just as I am zoning out staring at this enormous portrait of a lady sitting down criss-cross applesauce painted by Alex Whiteway to see if my hair is clean enough. Beth rubs her hands over my scalp. It squeaks inside my brain. I have never had that happen before. Not sure it was pleasant. Felt like I imagine that long gray-haired scientist felt in "Independence Day" when the alien got into his mind and showed him a full-scale slideshow of the destruction of the world.
Clean enough.
I peep longingly at the bagel box as I am escorted to the main salon floor. I want one, but I figure one shouldn't keep a herd of pedicured women all wearing the same pants waiting. Who knows what kind of club that is.
I pop up on my wonderful red leather squishy barber chair. I've raved about these chairs before. I place my script in my lap and remove my glasses. I am intent on absorbing some of these lines for my role as impish French minx Fabienne while I get my hurr did, but that doesn't last. I am soon distracted by the speech Panda-Penguin is giving as she applied gunk to my hair. She is holding up an enormously tall golden bottle as big around as my calf for the room to see. This is the magic Brazilian juice, it seems. This bottle costs seven million dollars. Everyone talks about math for a little while and tries to figure out how many blowouts one would have to inflict on customers in order for the golden bottle of magical juice to pay for itself. I stop listening then because I only get excited about math when my father has explained it to me in such a way that I feel I'm a conquering warrior princess whenever I manage to solve for "x." Panda-Penguin slides her glasses into my lap. Okay. I'll hold your glasses too. Or maybe she thinks they are mine. No matter, she's lecturing. Five minutes later she pauses in her speech.
"Where are your glasses?"
I hold up the pair she has handed me.
"Oh, these aren't mine. I thought they might be yours and you wanted me to hold them for you."
Nope.
"You have to wear glasses while you get a Brazilian Blowout. But it's ok. You can wear yours. You're reading anyway."
Apparently it is on trend to wear glasses to the hair salon. And people become very curious when they see you doing just that. People will start to think, "I wonder what procedure she's getting done that requires her to wear glasses." Then they too will want to look cool wearing glasses in a red leather chair with a cape across their front and be willing to sacrifice buying a home or six cars in favor of having a Brazilian Blowout for themselves.
I start listening again when someone throws a porcupine at my left ear. Turns out it was just this wooden bristly brush- but no one warned me. I don't want one of those brushes. I did for a second when Panda-Penguin was offering them as prizes in a desperate attempt to get any one of the Capri Team to say a single word. Changed my mind.
She is talking again now about the benefits of blowing it out Brazilian-style. These are not harmful chemicals being sizzled into my hair, she is saying. This potion is so expensive because its ingredients are the best of the earth: coconut snot, secretions of newborn Persian kittens, etc.
I say that I think the flat iron being used is a very nice one and am immediately strongly discouraged from getting one for myself- "No. You don't need this. You'd burn all your hair off."
Okay.
Beth is standing in front of the bagel station asking insightful questions. Sterling is somewhere in the room doing the same, but I cannot see him. I think he might be like Nightcrawler from X-Men. Just popping in and out as needed. He definitely changed shirts halfway through my hair appointment for reasons that remain unclear.
I glare at the lady who is not only wearing white capris but also a white top because she is rudely talking to her friend while Panda-Penguin is lecturing on split ends over the whirring of the hair dryer. She catches me glaring. Her friend, I can tell, feels properly chastised. The original offender does not. I look out the widow at a man swinging his daughter by the ankle instead.
A hair dryer needs to be set on cool blue and held at least two inches from my scalp in order to diffuse the amino acids from the potion into the roots of my neural canal. Or something. In case you guys want to try this at home.
After my hair has been treated, blown dry, and straightened, they get it wet again. This almost makes me want to cry on their behalf because dealing with my hair once takes forever, let alone twice on purpose. But everyone remains stoic. I stare at Alex Whiteway's painting some more. This time past the counter I do snag a bagel. A beautiful yellow egg bagel the like of which I have missed since my days at William & Mary and was just pining for yesterday at a Bodo's in Charlottesville- and here it was.
The gentleman- Brian, I think- who is in charge of this whole experience and has one very curly lash on his left upper eyelid comments to the room that "the model looks afraid to eat her bagel." Please. I mutter, "I am not afraid."
"She's not afraid!" He says to the room. They all laugh in a wave several times over, then it fades out awkwardly like that scene with Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers."*
So, with half my hair done, photos taken for future reference, the curious pack of white-panted ladies leave the salon. Panda-Penguin applies the blowout liquid to the other half of my head and she and Beth chat while Sterling lies face down and screams through small holes in the floor to someone in the basement who may or may not have been imaginary.
My hair is now very sleek, smooth, and mostly straight. I feel like my head has shrunk. You may have trouble recognizing me. If it doesn't go into a topknot with ease, I may cut it all off, but I have been gifted a bag of golden tubes of blowout goo with which to maintain my sleek new look should I choose to do so.
Thank you, Sterling and Beth. For both bagels and blowout. I'll be back.
*I adore Dr. Evil and will be him for Halloween some year.
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