Convention

On Wednesday one of the director-of-something ladies asked me to participate in a career expo at the convention center. I was flattered and agreed, assuming it was some sort of aesthetics-industry expo where I could fraternize with salon owners. So I was surprised to discover that the expo was for high schoolers, and I "have" the career. Myself, and about ten of my fellow campers were there handing out flyers, giving hand massages, and generally trying to seem like an appealing collective of fun, artistic, well-adjusted young adults. I left the expo with the feeling that I had accidentally promoted Boston University more than Aveda, but the kids were curious and intelligent and I had no intention of answering any of their questions dishonestly.

A bold 18 year old boy and his less bold friend approached me while I was standing in front of the booth doling out hand massages. I asked the bold kid if he would like one, and he replied, "Actually  I want to give you a hand massage." I politely accepted, and he hilariously gave his shyer friend a knowing wink. Then he proceeded to tell me about his trip to Germany and his talent as a professional organist. Upon completing my massage, he opened his wallet and gave me his professional, though slightly aged and tattered business card. His name was Felix and he was the highlight of my day.

Clients

Yesterday a friend asked me "what kind of people get their hair cut at a school?" One of my classmates once had an especially pungent client. She had hair down to her knees that she allegedly hadn't washed in three weeks for "religious reasons". After the woman left, my idiot classmate embellished her olfactory experience repeatedly for maximum sympathy. But this particular woman is the only not-so-good client experience that comes to mind. I explained to my friend that I've been lucky with my clients. Most of them have been down to earth, youngish girls who like to travel. Finding common ground is easy and conversation flows smoothly. This group usually tips best. I've had a couple of fairly wealthy clients, lawyers, country club members, who just seem to like the energy and enthusiasm of the student body. They ask a lot of questions about the decision making process that lead to me to this point. I stand over their their supine bodies, holding their heads in my hands. I massage shampoo into their scalps and tell them "well, it was kind of a whim." I've been told I give good scalp massages.

The majority of my clients have a college education, which surprised me considering our bargain level service prices. I've had a few clients on the less-educated, lower-income end of the spectrum, but not as many as I would have expected. This group is infinitely less chatty than the aforementioned. I ask everyone the same conversation-prompting questions, and here I'm met with one word answers. "What do you do for work?" "Maintenance." Once this older man came in who hadn't had a haircut in fifteen years. He'd been buzzing his own head, he didn't look like Rapunzel. But I don't think he had ever set foot in a proper salon before. He was visibly uncomfortable with all the pleasantries and formalities: the bubbly receptionists with rainbow hair, the complementary herbal tea, the hand and shoulder massages. When he sat down at my station I immediately identified his smell as a combination of cigarettes and McDonalds. I haven't set foot in a McDonalds in years. It's incredible how scent-identification is so firmly imbedded in the human memory. I'm doing my best to make this guy feel less out of place. He's a grandfather so I ask about his grandkids, he is apparently estranged from all of his children and grandchildren, even though they all live in Portland. Family seems like a sore subject. I tentatively skirt around a few other topics before I ask "Have you ever been to The Nite Hawk?" Then I'm grateful for my five month stint as a trashy diner waitress when he lights up a little and he tells me, yes he has. After I inform him that I once worked there, he relaxes and becomes slightly more talkative. I have clearly gained entry level access to his trust. I am now borderline relatable. I silently congratulate myself for sticking with that miserable job for those five long months. Conversation is now flowing fairly smoothly, I ask if he has a dog. Then I took a few seconds to silently congratulate my mastery of the art of conversation, because (and I can personally attest to the validity of this statement) anyone who loves their dog can talk about dogs for hours.

Laundry

My affair with hair camp (it's been demoted from 'hair school') hit a rough patch this week. I'm on laundry duty right now. Which means I sit in the laundry room for three hours stints with like six other people who are also assigned to laundry duty. Every few minutes someone gets up and throws a load of something wet into a dryer. Except only two of us are ever the someone doing something, while the other semi-useless bodies huddle around an iPad streaming some shitty reality show. This is when I realize that I'm surrounded by children that are beyond uninterested in anything resembling work ethic. They spent their high school career avoiding work, ergo they're here instead of university, and I'm here voluntarily. And I'm paying for the privilege.

This girl comes into the laundry room and tells us an adorable story about how she climbed into one of these enormous dryers and her friend rolled her around like a hamster wheel. Her story makes me feel better. One thing I appreciate about my fellow hair campers is the youthful sense of playfulness that survived their teenage years.

Every few minutes the terrifying industrial sized machines make inexplicable BANG and CRACK sounds. Everything in this building needs maintenance. There is never any toilet paper in the bathrooms, all the sinks leak, half of our chairs are broken or lopsided. Where is all of our tuition money going? I think, formulating a scathing complaint letter in my head. And if one more person tries to show me what shade of purple (excuse me, violet) their hair used to be, and tells me how much they loved it and how they were so bummed out when it faded I'm going to break their iPad in half. The same goes for pictures of other people's coveted tattoos. "I don't care!" I try unsuccessfully to say with my eyes. My least favorite thing about hair camp is that by virtue of my attendance here it is assumed that I care what all of my classmates look like, used to look like, and want to look like in the future. It is also assumed that I believe in, and have some base knowledge about the properties of my star sign.

A few weeks ago a girl in my class, one who would probably not be characterized as conventionally pretty, got a makeover. Our instructor gathered everyone around to watch her transform. Well he gathered us around to demonstrate the cut, but the latter felt secondary. He gave her a beautiful, A-line short cut, then waxed her eyebrow into two. Then some of the girls did her makeup, and she looked like a different person. I've never seen a human glow with fortitude before, it was an active glow. She beamed for the next three hours until class ended, and probably for three more hours after she went home. She couldn't stop smiling. From my station I could see her reflection in her station as she finished her hair cut on her Penelope. She was just smiling and glowing and beaming and radiating uncontrollably. Word got around and all the director-of-something ladies came by to check her out and tell her how great she looked. All the other girls were freaking out and taking pictures and touching her hair. She looked up at me and said: "I feel so special today." 

And then the moral conflict set in, as it always does when I'm just starting to enjoy hair camp. "You are!" I vocalized, but my entire upbringing and my parents and my extremely expensive university education throttled me and implored me to explain to her that she was special every day and that placing such value in your appearance is secondary and narrow minded and that I secretly missed her unibrow! But I loved seeing her so happy. I want to make other people feel confident, of course. But can I do this guiltlessly? Will I ever stop thinking "what about the Syrian refugees? Access to clean water? Carbon emissions?" and is that a good or bad thing? Can I just relax and enjoy the craft of hair and makeup? Can I allow myself to value the finite skill and technique this industry requires? Can I appreciate the ephemeral pride in feeling pretty without wrenching some internal struggle out of it?