The Pull of the Moon_ A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,31

human, to understand that when you came into a beauty parlor you felt naked. And if you came into a beauty parlor when you were fifty you felt naked and invisible both, which was a very odd and terrible feeling they might want to be sensitive to, especially since older women tended to tip a lot better than younger women. From the reception room, I heard the sound of applause, the sound of one person clapping. It was the woman waiting for highlights, I was sure. The man asked, in a kind of tired way, what was it that I wanted, exactly. I told him I wanted the gray back in my hair. He said well that was easy, all I had to do was let it grow. I said no, I wanted all the other junk that had begun fading to get off of there right now. He said they could try, but he couldn’t guarantee anything. I said what else is new. He said pardon me? I said what else is new, you never guarantee anything, do you know how many times women go home from the beauty parlor and weep? He said he doubted that happened very often. The woman with the hair combed over her face pushed it aside and said, “No, Henry, you’re wrong. It happens all the time.” Henry turned to her in a very careful way. “Has that happened to you, Lucy?” he said. “You’ve never told me you’ve been unhappy with anything we’ve done here.”

The woman wanting highlights came into the room. Her cheeks were flushed a very nice pink, and her gaze was fastened onto Henry like headlights. “It’s happened to me,” she said. “Four or five times in the last year.” “Well,” Henry said, laughing a little, clenching his fists in a way that made me think it was so he wouldn’t finger his collar. “How can we know that if you don’t tell us?” I said he didn’t understand, that it was just a very intimidating thing to sit in a chair and have someone work on your hair. He said he didn’t think it was so intimidating, it was just a matter of a client being open to change and new experiences. He said people make much too much of a haircut, it was no big deal, it was just hair—if you didn’t like it, it would grow back. I said oh yeah well why didn’t he just sit down and I’d work on his hair. He said you don’t think I’d do that, do you? I said I know you wouldn’t. And he told me to get up and I took off my drape and got my purse because I thought he was throwing me out, but what happened is he took my drape and put it on himself, then sat in my chair and told me, go ahead. I stood stock-still. I felt like my insides were taking the express elevator down. He turned toward the mirror, looked at himself, ran his fingers through the sides of his longish hair. “Really,” he said, looking into the mirror at me, “go ahead.” There was not one sound in that place, even the music had been turned off. Finally, I said, All right. Fine, I said. And I put down my purse and told Henry, “Over to the sink, please, I’m going to shampoo you first.” He went to the sink and leaned back and I used the little sprayer to wet down his hair and I asked if the water temperature was right, which I thought was the least I could do. “Very comfortable,” he said. I shampooed him and then I wrapped a towel around his head—rather inexpertly, as it turned out, it fell off as soon as he stood up. But he just picked it up and rubbed his head for a minute, then settled the towel on his shoulders and went back to the station. I asked to see what was available for me to use. Robert opened his drawer. There were all kinds of scissors, five or six combs, a couple of brushes. I picked out a comb and a pair of scissors and Robert shook his head violently but Henry said, “No. Leave her alone.”

I combed Henry’s hair for a while and then I held up a piece of it. I stood there for the longest time with the scissors open but then I just couldn’t do it. I put the scissors