wondering expressions. There was a smatter of mild comments in response. “It’s sort of OK.” “I’ve seen worst.” “Did you do it yourself?” Suddenly the dam of their politeness and pent-up repugnance broke—no one had given him their honest opinion about his hair before—and he was convinced that he had to take action. Katie contributed the most to his certainty. Although her words were not as personal and biting as the others, he thought that her inability to remain neutral was the most urgent sign that his hair needed fixing. “My grandfather tried to dye his hair once, and it was a mess, just like yours,” she said. He did not want to be compared to anyone’s grandfather.
While Bill was driving around the block, so he could pass in front of the salon again and look through the window once more, a conversation took place inside that concerned him.
“Donna,” said Catherine. “Have you seen that car that keeps driving by?”
Donna, who was the owner of the salon, stood nearest to the window in the interior. She was busy cutting the hair of a customer. Because the front desk was situated between her and the window, she could not be clearly seen by anyone passing by in a car or on the sidewalk, and she was someone whom people would notice. In excellent shape for a woman who had reached her mid-fifties, Donna could pretend to be much younger than she was, and she did. Plastic surgery helped support the illusion. In addition to her physical attractions, she exuded a warm sensuality more common to women of a childbearing age that men of all ages found irresistible. While she had been married for more than twenty-five years, she had been frequently and secretly admired and occasionally propositioned, but she had always refused to be unfaithful. Her former husband was a policeman and very handsome. However, since they had divorced about a year ago, Donna found the attention she received from strange men much more flattering and passively encouraged it. Although she already had a much younger, jealous boyfriend, who disapproved of her showing interest in other men, she did what she wanted to. He always forgave her, and her husband now wanted her back. Like Helen of Troy, men couldn’t let go of her and fought over her. She considered her profession as a hairdresser a form of artistic expression and dressed mostly in black.
Catherine, another stylist in the salon, stood next to Donna. She was working on Helen, who was a regular customer there. Like Donna, Catherine could see what was happening outside without being seen. They were both in the habit of gazing out the window frequently during work. There was little of interest outdoors in that town—the commercial street in front of them had intermittent pedestrian and vehicle traffic—but they had been working in the salon for so many years that the wonders of hairstyling, chair massages, and facials had been exhausted for them. Although the chance was small that they would see something new in front of the shop, they kept looking. The other way they had of passing their day was talking. They indulged in that liberally. They kept almost a constant banter going amongst themselves or with customers. They had talked so much over the years that they had an intimate knowledge of each other’s life. Neither woman was secretive. However, although the two women were good friends, entrusting personal secrets to each other and spending time together outside of work, they were quite different in several ways. Catherine didn’t have the voluptuous beauty of Donna. She was plain looking and somewhat overweight. Her excessively highlighted and permed hair, heavy makeup, and colorful clothing were all calculated attempts to compensate for her lack of prettiness. But they completely failed to attract the desires of men that Donna so effortlessly drew toward herself. In comparison with Donna’s palpable sensuality, Catherine had the personal charm of an automated voice system. The usual reaction of men to Catherine was to get away as fast as possible.
To Catherine’s question about the circulating car, Donna replied, “Yes. That beat-up thing ought to be melted down and recycled.” Appearances mattered very much to her. She drove a new BMW.
“Who do you think’s driving it?” Catherine asked.
“Don’t know.”
“What do you think they’re doing?” Catherine continued.
“Maybe it’s an old man who’s lost. He might have forgot where he’s going. He’ll just go round and round in circles till he runs out of gas.”