Fifty-six: La Vie En Rose

Over the weekend, I had a sublime salon experience.
But it started last month when I took a chance and changed my stylist and salon to one right over the intercoastal bridge, Salon La Vie. French sounding. I had noticed the French with the exception of Gerard Depardeau always look well coiffed and rather chic and so figured, well, why not? Change is often good, sometimes surprising and even interesting if served with a bit of whimsy, so why the hell not?
My first visit, just a hair cut was lovely. People were pleasant and offered me beverages many times during that hour. My stylist Carl was the perfect mode of chatty, neither talking too much or too little. Plus the man is a genius with scissors. I've gotten nothing but compliments on the cut. I did like that he didn't screech or wince when looking at the streak of gray coming from my roots and didn't press to color that day. Before I left, though, I did make the appointment for the color.
Which brings me to Saturday. First of all, there was no waiting. I hate when you get to a salon on time and there's a wait. If I wanted that, I could go to my primary physician thank you very much. Of course, after an offer of a beverage, it was on to the color room, a circular room inside the salon for, yes, you guessed it, the discussion, debate, and application of color, or as I like to call it where middle aged women go to dye. Carl brought me the color swatches, mounted in hair, and we agreed on a shade, both sassy and rich, yet age appropriate. A lovely chocolate brown with some auburn asides. He gave me an extra cranking of color right at my forehead where my gray loves to break free and call me a liar to my face. After about 25 minutes of soaking in it, a stylist in training and receptionist Cash, handsome dog despite the gravity defying hairstatement, rinsed me out. Then came the shampoo with the five minute scalp massage. After the scalp massage, came the conditioner under the warm towel. While that was going on, Cash massaged my hands with a rosemary and lavendar cream that turned back the clock on my hands at least 15 years.
By the time I got back to Carl, I was relaxed, soothed and damn, did my hair and my hands smell good. The man just gave me a freshen up cut and style, again, he is a genius with those shears and just as I thought we were done, he hands me over to Polish born Natalia for a complimentary make-up makeover. Fifteen minutes later, I looked like a rock star and I mean that in a Beyonce kind of way, not a Marilyn Manson way. I felt like a million bucks walking out of that salon and I have to say, it's been a long time, really long time, since I felt that way. Just because I looked good? Sure, I'll embrace that for what it is---as ego, vanity, humanity, PMS and a fair amount of school related stress. Billy Crystal's alter ego on SNL, Fernando used to say, "Dahlink, it is bettah to look good than to feel good." And I'm all over that, but part of it was that I did feel good. People offered me many beverages, massaged me, listened to me tell stories, paid attention to me. It was a great antidote for weeks and weeks of being either ignored, slighted, vexed, insulted and aggravated, sometimes all of them in one day. So sure, I could have meditated and contemplated my energy pathways and my channels of bliss, but now, this way, I have garnett streaks in my hair whenever the sun warms my head.