I’m convinced that when I’m having my hair colored, highlighted, and cut at the salon, that I’m in a “free-zone” and I’m untouchable, except, of course, by my sensational stylist, Aubrey. Only she is permitted to talk to me and touch me. No incoming calls or catastrophes are allowed in through that salon door. I’m safe inside a neutral ground and enemies must be kept at bay.
It’s my own personal liberation. I have no need for my cell phone, and at times, I ignore it completely for the two-plus hours I am there. Freeing myself of that device—and more importantly, not caring about it—offers me a sense of rebirth. I can survive without it. I am able to ignore the vibrations that are occurring in my purse which sits at my feet as my head is submerged in hot water with wonderfully smelling shampoos and conditioners cleansing my scalp and hair.
I typically have only two concerns when I’m there:
(1) What shade should we go for on that particular day because I rarely repeat the same color twice, and
(2) Does the salon have enough People Style-Watch magazines so I can indulge my guilty pleasure?
This sense of liberty is indeed calming. I’m quite sure our Founding Fathers felt much the same way during their quest for independence as I do whilst I am there. It’s complete and utter freedom. I don’t have to make dinner. I don’t have to drive someone to practice. I am exempt from assisting with homework or chores or grading papers. The list is quite endless, you see.
And what’s amazing is that I find I have the remarkable capacity to do absolutely nothing at all but enjoy the scalp massage or watch the Redken fashion show video on the television. I need very little when I’m there. I decompress so completely, that I wish my doctor would appear with his blood pressure gizmo and take my pulse at that particular moment. I’m not a gambling woman, but I’d bet the mortgage it would be WAY LOW. A catatonic state of relaxation, the doctor would write on my chart.
When the haircut is over and my hair is dried and styled, I’m told that I’m done. I get emotional. “Don’t make me leave!” I want to shout. “Can’t you understand? I’m in the neutral zone. No one can get to me here!”
But it’s useless. I pay my tab and exit the salon, leaving the whir of blow dryers behind me as I walk into the night air. My pulse begins to return to what it was just two hours earlier and I think about what lies ahead. The dishes await, there are bills to pay, and I’ve got a blog to write.
What will the subject be tonight, I wonder.