I am at a hair salon, the one I go to on Sunset, and while I’m waiting to take these pieces of foil out of my head, I decided to open my computer.
Here, at the salon, I have wireless. It is times like this when I don’t understand why people fear technology.
Last night I went out with a girl from the show, in an effort to get to know each other. Ironically, this album was playing the entire time, so from the very beginning we skipped past most of the get-to-know-you’s and went straight to the long, way more interesting stories, the ones that involve family, or meeting your husband and most of your friends over the internet. You know, the kinds of stories where someone decides they either like you, or think you are a huge freak.
Luckily we were the same kind of freaks. But then we had company. A group of three were seated next to us, and for some reason they were facing us, like we were their stage. I dislike sitting very close to the next table. I hate it when the place is so small or popular that everybody’s sort of having dinner with each other. And this is why. These three people just openly listened to our conversation, and then started talking about what we were talking about, talking about us. And we didn’t say anything to each other then, but there was a moment when we both knew they were talking, loudly and openly, about their opinions on our conversation.
This continued to happen to the two of us for the rest of the night. We’d be standing on the street, talking, and as a group passed we’d hear them continue on, their conversation suddenly becoming about whatever we were just discussing. stee and Dan joined us and we started talking about bad music, one-hit wonders, and who might win the Worst Mix CD contest, a contest that started last night, and right now I should be working on it instead of writing this. Anyway, I started singing a few notes of “Just a Friend,” and suddenly the group of smokers by the bar entrance, including the bouncer, began howling the chorus. “Oh, baby, YOUUUU!””
But then, when I walked into the bathroom, I overheard a conversation so good I wanted to carry it back to my table. As I entered, a blonde was staring at herself in the mirror (never a good sign at a bar at one in the morning). Another woman entered behind me. I only overheard this conversation from inside my stall:
I don’t think I can do it.
Yes, you can, honey. Slap some cold water on your face and do it.
I don’t know.
Slap some cold water on your face. That’s what you do. Slap some cold water on your face and then go outside and get some air, and then come back in here, slap some cold water on your face again, and then you just get in your car and drive home.
I don’t think I should.
That’s what cold water is for. So you can drive home. I should know. I’m forty. I’ve been doing this for a while. I’m forty. Hell, I’m fifty. Do it, honey. Just pull yourself together and drive home.
I’m gonna go get another drink.
Or you could do that. Yeah.
My favorite part was where the woman’s age jumped an entire decade in less than a second. She was like, “Why am I telling my LA age to this drunk woman? I want to sound wiser. And I’m fifty.”
Here’s another bonus of wireless in the hair salon. I just got an email from Allison. The first time I sat in this salon with foil in my hair was with her by my side. It was the day before my wedding, and we both wanted our hair did. With AB’s urging, I asked for highlights, terrified that I was ruining my head moments before I had a thousand photographs taken of me. It was very early in the morning, and I looked at the colorist and said, “I’m getting married tomorrow and…” and then I completely lost my breath. “Wow,” I said. “I’ve never said that before.”
The colorist did a great job, and Al’s hair has never looked prettier. So I was happy to see Allison’s name in my inbox. I opened her email to tell her I was at our hair salon.
She had found pictures in her digital camera that she’d never seen before, and sent them along.
This was the first one.