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Whatever Happened to Glamour?

It looked like I'd have to choose between Ocean and Monica.

This choice seemed normal to me, and just goes to show how much this city has affected what I consider 'normal'. I chose Monica though I was attracted to Ocean. As it turned out, I was happy with my choice, but at the point of choosing I was rather nervous.

This major event in my life, this having to choose between Glamour and Ocean, happened today; a humid and sultry day in Manhattan. A day that started off normally enough. Saturday, a chance to sleep in and relax. But today I decided to have my hair cut. I couldn't cope with another bad hair day in this humidity, and so I dragged myself out of bed and called my hairdressing salon.

"I'd like to make an appointment with Glamour", I said to the gum-chewing Queens accent on the other end of the phone.

I just love the way New Yorkers communicate. No beating around the bush. No small talk or noise words. "Glamour's gone", was the abrupt reply.

I was horrified. What would I do? It had taken years for me to find a decent hairdresser in New York. Wonderful Glamour who could actually cut hair, who spoke little and got on with the job. Dark-complexioned Glamour who would, when she did speak , talk so fondly of her pale blue-eyed mother in Philadelphia.

Well, no use worrying, I'd just have to choose another one. And so I set off to walk the few blocks to the salon.

I was remembering the pre-Glamour days - the days of the Nurse Rachet clone who made me look like I belonged in an institution; of the days when I'd have my hair cut by Madison of the broken hairdryer, who would use kitchen scissors, and who called me "Hon".

With the Beatles song, "It Can't Get No Worse" playing in my head, I walked through the thick heat across to Third Avenue. Past brownstones with stoops like in the movies of my youth.

Those New Yorkers who do not have air-conditioning, come outside when the days are hot and long. They sit on their stoops, talking to anyone, and watching the world go by. I passed an elderly woman sitting and staring ahead. She wore ankle bracelets and had hoop earrings. At the next house another old lady, and ankle bracelets! Must be the new look for the senior citizens of New York.

And so to the salon where I chose Monica over Ocean.

I had to wait. Monica was setting hair in rollers. Her 'client' was a very elderly lady, who had a large walking stick propped up against the wall.

Monica was chattering away. Every time she spoke she'd put down the rollers and talk to the woman, looking straight at her through the mirror. It was taking forever. Occasionally she'd turn towards me and repeat what she'd just said to her client. I thought I'd scream, and looked longingly at Ocean's cubicle.

"I'll give you my cell phone number", she was telling her client, "and call me but only if there's an emergency!" Monica put down the brush and roller and dropped the strand of hair she was about to roll. She turned to face me. "I can't stand chit-chat y'know!" she explained. "Could have fooled me", I answered.

Who would WANT to call you", said the elderly client and started laughing.

Monica didn't take offence. You can sort of tell, even after knowing her only five minutes, that she's one of those people who are incapable of taking offence.

At last she resumed her hair-setting. But not for long. A huge man entered the salon and said hello to her. She turned her dryer on high and blasted him. "It's HOT!" he yelled. "Oh you always get hot when you see me", she yelled back.

After she'd told us both what a lovely man he was, she resumed her work. Ocean had cut the hair of three people by the time Monica led me to the basins.

My hair washed, and back in the chair, I almost didn't ask, as I knew it meant she'd put the scissors down, about Glamour. But I have a masochistic streak and couldn't help myself.

"You mean my Pumpkin?" she asked. "I suppose", I told her. "The one that used to work where Ocean is now".

"Oh I love Pumpkin!" Monica chattered on. "She lives upstate near the sea. Lovely house. She does hair from her home." And on and on.

After about 100 years Monica finished cutting. An excellent job and well worth the time taken. She took out the dryer that she'd blasted the lovely man with, and was about to start blow-waving, when she noticed that the client before me, the elderly woman who had her hair in rollers, had fallen asleep under her dryer. "Oh no," said Monica, "my client is asleep; now that's not normal for her. She's an interesting lady. We used to go dancing together."

An on and on.

But Monica did finish her job. And it was perfect. I went to reception to pay, and then took my tip over to Monica who was with her elderly client, looking concerned and waking her gently.

Two blue eyes opened in her her obviously once-beautiful but now time-ravaged face. She looked at Monica with her clear pale-blue eyes, eyes like I imagined Glamour's mother to have. And then she spoke.

"Emergencies only. No chit-chat thank you!"

Kate Juliff
New York
June 2005