Hairstylists’ are unique individuals that share bizarre stories, which we have witnessed or experienced from years of work in the beauty field. Behind the Chair is a series of short stories with fictional characters, although based upon a hairstylist’s examination of salon life over 25 years, and the following is an excerpt from one.
Snip, Snip, Snip, and the Blood Fell to the Floor
No one noticed her lifeless body until Anna saw the blood streaming down the cape and screamed. Poor innocent girl thought I cut my finger again and ran to fetch a Band-Aid from the first aid kit under the reception desk of Nico’s storefront, as she did every time I snipped my skin. However, it wasn’t my blood that dripped onto the salon floor. It oozed from the shears, which penetrated deep within the ear of that cackling bitch and hushed her permanently. Surprisingly fast too! I shocked myself at how swiftly and easily the scissors infiltrated her ear drum. I fantasized as I cut her hair about muting her forever, but didn’t think the murderous rage would escalate into reality.
It felt eerily similar to cutting the cartilage through chicken. And she didn’t scream; well, actually she couldn’t. My left hand wrapped the cape around her throat as the weapon performed its miracle and death was imminent. The coroner would later determine her demise was due to asphyxiation, but I took pride in the ease of which I stabbed the one area she irritated the most in me. Her eyes rolled sideways toward me, then back in her head. I gaped at the drool, which seeped from the side of her mouth that only seconds earlier berated me into a rage.
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, loser, blah, blah, blah, what are you stupid, blah, blah, blah, my daughter is your age and she is a doctor, your parents must be so proud, blah, blah, blah!” Snip, Snip, Snip, then silence and Barbara breathed her last gulp of air mixed with the aerosol hairspray that engulfed the salon ceiling.
Someone once asked if the sound “snip, snip, snip” from the scissors grated on my auricular nerves. Of course my answer was no. There is something extremely gratifying about a salon: the sound of chattering clients, the shears as they slice the hair, the fruity aroma of hair color and hairspray as it fills the air and the smiles of satisfied clients.
This is not the career path for all. Salon life is more of a vocation, if you don’t love it, then you leave it. True beauty professionals are immersed in the sensory perception of designing coifs; yet, it was the scissors and the sound of the client’s voice that proved to be this hairstylist’s downfall and the death of the obnoxious guest. It wasn’t the snip, snip, snip that drove me mad, it was the nasally whine that etched into my brain like nails on a chalkboard, and the incessant complaints that surfaced from her pursed, narrow lips.
They say people are glum in rainy weather or rambunctious when the moon is full, however this was a glorious spring day in the beginning of the lunar cycle. The drive to the North Shore of Long Island was picturesque, for lack of a better word. Cherry blossoms were in bloom, hydrangeas blossomed and tulips lined the manicured lawns of the well to do.
There is a strange misconception that Long Island is comprised of mansions encompassed by wealthy plastic people. This is not the case. While many neighborhoods do in fact consist of the upper class, there are sections, and many of them, which include middle to lower class families and yes, even the poor.
The salon was located in Manhasset, and the clientele was mostly the former, however the servants, excuse me, the hairstylists and assistants belonged somewhere in the middle and below, except for the owner whose own expansive home was built from the sweat and tears of his employees.
A Friday morning schedule was generally full of elderly women and their weekly blowouts/sets. We all had our adorable regulars and have acclimated to their needs, wants and limitless instruction on the amount of teasing, how much hairspray and what sized curling iron will get the job done. For some, this could be their only outing of the week and we cherished our time with them, no matter how ingratiating it could be at times for a mere $2 tip.
I arrived at 8:50, thankfully ten minutes early, wouldn’t want a sneer from Nico, as the rest of the staff were diligently unpacking the tools for the day. The assistants started the coffee and the regulars were in the waiting area, tapping their toes in anticipation for the weekly scrub. Fortunately, Helene turned on the radio and the morning prank drowned out the impatient huffs.
One by one, satisfied blowouts left the salon in droves and lunchtime was upon us. Now, unless you are inundated with regulars every day, Nico wouldn’t allow time to be allotted to eat. The low-end of the totem pole had to scoff down food in-between guests. I had five minutes before my 12:30, as my noon appointment was a quick and easy buzz cut. No time to scour the deli, so the banana in my bag and a cup of Joe would have to do. I walked to the rear of the salon and chatted with the assistants as I poured my well-needed java and grabbed my fruit from my satchel that hung in the coatroom. The top snapped easily and as one peel slid down the shaft, Helene, the receptionist, called from the front that my 12:30 had arrived.
“Thank you,” I replied and motioned with my hand for Barbara, a new, recommended client to follow me to the shampoo area.
I took a bite of the fruit and put the banana on a napkin as I waited for Barbara to saunter to the back. Her gait was slow and deliberate as she took in her surroundings as if each detail was to later be recalled for a police sketch artist; little did she know. Her small stature and plump frame was that of a woman who takes immense pleasure in the mere aroma of food and the crackle of a snack cake wrapper. For the amount of time it took her to meander to the sink, I could have watched my banana ripen, eaten it, floss and be back in time to greet Babs by the washbowl.
“Good morning, I’m Deirdre. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I believe Hanna recommended me?”
“It’s the afternoon…” with a great emphasis on nooooooon.
“Yes, it is. The morning ran away from me.” I chuckled “What are we doing for you today?”
“We aren’t doing anything. YOU are cutting my hair. For some reason Hannah says you are amazing, but we will see.”
It was difficult to keep a smile on my lips. Something about the smugness in this pug’s face rubbed me the wrong way. But I relented. “Are you keeping the same style or did you want to change it?”
“If I didn’t want to change it, brainiac, I would have stayed with my other hairstylist. Do you even know how to cut hair? Hanna said you are great, but you don’t know what I want! Why don’t you surprise me blondie, unless you can’t muster enough creativity in your tiny mind to figure out a haircut that will work for me. I know hairstylists aren’t educated, but really!”
I took a deep breath. I did not need another assault charge added to my record. The last was cleared and this job was hard enough to find. My fake smile grew as I examined her clothes. She wore a cashmere tunic over tight leggings and carried a Luis Viton bag. The purse could have been a knock-off, but chances are she had money, it was the neighborhood and her persona bellowed, “I am better than you.” The tunic didn’t cover her hips and the leggings accentuated every roll from her hips to her knees. She may have been wealthy, but she certainly lacked fashion sense or had carnival mirrors laid throughout her home. I began to feel bad for the evil little munchkin and called over Kim, my favorite assistant to shampoo her hair.
“Kim will wash you, and then I will meet you in my chair and make you look even more fabulous than you do.”
Kim smirked at me, I shoved the banana down my throat, in a very inappropriate way, and Kim laughed out loud as she leaned Barbara back.
“What’s so funny? Do you always laugh at the clients?” Kim apologized and the oompah-loompah demanded her scalp be scrubbed, hard, for two shampoos and no conditioner. “ I am not paying extra for conditioner.” She wouldn’t have had to, but the customer is always right and I motioned for Kim to forgo the additional hair care. Kim escorted the guest to my chair and brought her a cup of coffee, the last she’d drink on this planet.
The characters in these short stories are fictional, although based upon a hairstylist’s perspective of true salon life compiled from over 25 years of experience.
©Deirdre Haggerty, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this article may be reproduced without prior written permission and consent from the author.
