The hair salon was punk all the way, from the dark walls to the spray painted graffiti art. It was a place a person could reinvent themselves, express some rebellious need. The music screamed and beat was as electric as crash cart paddles.
The hair salon began in the first light of the day, the staff sitting on the terrace, passing the time with a coffee. They never talked, not that I saw. I guess their way of living is one of constant chatter and so they relished this quiet time and willed it to stretch onwards. It was a simple place, one large room for the cutting and the outside terrace that customers often waited on. There were times I would sit and watch the goings on in that salon, see men walk in with capricious stubble and leave clean shaven. I'd see them be covered in the white foam with a soft brush, see them trust the barber as he brought the knife to their skin. It was casual and normal living, as therapeutic as watching any other scene.
The hair salon was a place of connection as much as pampering. It was where the community went to talk, to share a coffee and feel good about themselves. It was where we all went to look beautiful on the outside and let it feed in to our insides, boost that sense of love toward the self and others. I loved it. I loved going in there and breathing in the perfumed air, indulging in the buoyant atmosphere of chatter. It was a chance to look in the mirror and focus on the self and have that be okay, something to celebrate. We all need that once in a while, right? We do.
It was one of those spaces that removed barriers between folks, as if no matter the weather outside, it was always strong spring sunshine within. There was touch, massage, conversation and smiles. It was a place icy loneliness melted. Everyone felt safe in Clara's salon, in the friendly vibrancy that lived there, soaking in the gentle care of the stylist.
The hair salon was a wide open space of mirrors and comfy leather chairs that swivelled all the way around. The floor was deep brown planks sanded smooth and the walls were brilliant white. It was personal and communal all at once, there in that space with so many yet speaking only to one. We'd go in there as winter sheep and leave as shorn lambs, our locks trimmed and glossy.
The hair salon was a long shop on the high street, comfy in the way caves are. It felt so wonderful it sit in there and be absorbed into its ambiance for a while. It was a holiday being there, perhaps for only thirty minutes or an hour, but a holiday it was.
Every day Emma was giving to others, her smile and warmth as she moved her scissors in delicate and precise motions. Yet today she was different. Her questions were the same, as was most things about her. Yet today there was something amiss. So I reversed the roles somewhat, gave her support instead and outpoured the grief not a soul had let her vent. We became friends that day, me and her. Now the hair salon means so much more.
The hair salon had soul. It was what you get when a personality as loud as mama Rosa makes her stamp on the world of style. She was the salon. Everyone who went in there was one of her honorary children. We were fussed over, cosseted. It felt amazing, some place you could go to and walk out of a better person.