I went to the Beauty Parlour today.
In a small town on the Canadian Prairies a Beauty Parlour primarily means the place where either males or females can get their hair curled and colored, cut or removed at the fraction of the cost that one would have to pay if one were in the city. At some all inclusive 'parlours' one can even sometimes get one's nails 'done' and their body massaged. Some parlours in our sun deprived climate actually make money from renting spaces and time on tanning beds.
The best part of the visit, however, is not the cut, the shampoo (which is lovely on so many levels) or the hair coloring that I receive at each visit. The best part does not involve my hair at all. The best part involves my ears. The best part of the visit is the gossip that is gleaned from each and every visit. It is the little snippets of conversation one catches between customer and professional. It is the little asides the beauticians give to one another regarding their children, in-laws, neighbours as they chat between the arrivals and departures of clients. The telephone calls and consequent appointment making and references to first names pass on more information for the seemingly idle listener and thus become sparkles on the jewels in the crown of surmising and reveries that is part of every gossip mongers unique attire.
There is something perhaps metaphysical about the fact that as one entrusts their hair and their looks for the next four to six weeks into the hands of someone they rarely see out in the real world that causes one to reveal secrets of family, political bents, and personal habits to this person who is standing behind them, scissors and hot appliances in hand, all the while totally ignoring the fact that at least three other people are in the room also listening to their reveals. (Why, I wonder, does a Catholic Confessional keep coming to mind at this point?)
Today I heard, almost immediately upon my arrival, whilst waiting for my professional to wait on me, a conversation between another beautician and her client. They were discussing an unnamed 'someone' who had somehow been 'chosen' to do something in the community for a duty that was not garnering the approval of either the client or professional. One of the comments made was, "They could have chosen anyone but him."..followed by the intriguing comment of , "You'd figure what with all those vehicles unpaid for." Now if that wasn't food for gossip fodder I don't know what is as one could almost label any number of several people in the area that had the privilege of 'owning' several unpaid for vehicles. The mind could, and did, and actually still does like an ever present background program running on a laptop, race literally amuck with the possibilities of the who? what? where? when? and why? That little snippet of overheard conversation assures me that I shall have several minutes, if not indeed hours, in future days to ponder these questions. Such is the benefit of visiting such a place of beauty and information extraordinaire, no matter what the cost.
Further to this salon visit I found out what a passing acquaintance did for New Year's (watched television instead of playing cards in the kitchen); found out how fast some lady's hair grew, and whose husband actually rated some consideration as to just how short or long his wife's hair was to be (sheesh). ( Okay so not all things heard at first flush are gossip worthy.)
I also learned, however, that someone whose name mentioned and for whom I have no high regard, had for the second day in a row not shown up for their appointment. This was an opportunity for an even more titillating and gleeful imagining as to why. An illness perhaps? A lack of funds? An unexpected house guest?
The scenarios were endless as my imagination marched on, although there was nothing overheard today to compare to the time I was sitting quietly under the noise of the dryer when the timer shut it off suddenly, and I heard as plain as day one of the beauticians saying to the other, "The lawyer called and said I don't have to testify." Now that little tidbit was worth every dollar spent and has given me days if not months of delightful and diverse musings.
Something that I didn't have to imagine today was the fact that the Hot Water tank in the building had broken just prior to my arrival and that there was no hot water left to rinse out my hair. There was no guessing or surmising about the constant danger hovering over all my procedure that I ultimately might have to partake of the so called new beauty treatment of sticking my dyed and foiled head straight into a snowbank in order to complete the colouring process :(.
The Swedish Polar Bear treatment they were trying to call it. $5 extra.
Thankfully the plumbers were able to attend, analyze, and repair the tank almost immediately. Within an hour there was enough measurably and miserably warmish water to rinse my hair without me having to leave the building thus saving me $5, as well as helping avoid the inevitable main street photo opt for the local paper, thus creating more gossip material for others than I had garnered at the salon that day or any other.
A note: Parlour basically comes from the French verb parler which means:
In a small town on the Canadian Prairies a Beauty Parlour primarily means the place where either males or females can get their hair curled and colored, cut or removed at the fraction of the cost that one would have to pay if one were in the city. At some all inclusive 'parlours' one can even sometimes get one's nails 'done' and their body massaged. Some parlours in our sun deprived climate actually make money from renting spaces and time on tanning beds.
The best part of the visit, however, is not the cut, the shampoo (which is lovely on so many levels) or the hair coloring that I receive at each visit. The best part does not involve my hair at all. The best part involves my ears. The best part of the visit is the gossip that is gleaned from each and every visit. It is the little snippets of conversation one catches between customer and professional. It is the little asides the beauticians give to one another regarding their children, in-laws, neighbours as they chat between the arrivals and departures of clients. The telephone calls and consequent appointment making and references to first names pass on more information for the seemingly idle listener and thus become sparkles on the jewels in the crown of surmising and reveries that is part of every gossip mongers unique attire.
There is something perhaps metaphysical about the fact that as one entrusts their hair and their looks for the next four to six weeks into the hands of someone they rarely see out in the real world that causes one to reveal secrets of family, political bents, and personal habits to this person who is standing behind them, scissors and hot appliances in hand, all the while totally ignoring the fact that at least three other people are in the room also listening to their reveals. (Why, I wonder, does a Catholic Confessional keep coming to mind at this point?)
Today I heard, almost immediately upon my arrival, whilst waiting for my professional to wait on me, a conversation between another beautician and her client. They were discussing an unnamed 'someone' who had somehow been 'chosen' to do something in the community for a duty that was not garnering the approval of either the client or professional. One of the comments made was, "They could have chosen anyone but him."..followed by the intriguing comment of , "You'd figure what with all those vehicles unpaid for." Now if that wasn't food for gossip fodder I don't know what is as one could almost label any number of several people in the area that had the privilege of 'owning' several unpaid for vehicles. The mind could, and did, and actually still does like an ever present background program running on a laptop, race literally amuck with the possibilities of the who? what? where? when? and why? That little snippet of overheard conversation assures me that I shall have several minutes, if not indeed hours, in future days to ponder these questions. Such is the benefit of visiting such a place of beauty and information extraordinaire, no matter what the cost.
Further to this salon visit I found out what a passing acquaintance did for New Year's (watched television instead of playing cards in the kitchen); found out how fast some lady's hair grew, and whose husband actually rated some consideration as to just how short or long his wife's hair was to be (sheesh). ( Okay so not all things heard at first flush are gossip worthy.)
I also learned, however, that someone whose name mentioned and for whom I have no high regard, had for the second day in a row not shown up for their appointment. This was an opportunity for an even more titillating and gleeful imagining as to why. An illness perhaps? A lack of funds? An unexpected house guest?
The scenarios were endless as my imagination marched on, although there was nothing overheard today to compare to the time I was sitting quietly under the noise of the dryer when the timer shut it off suddenly, and I heard as plain as day one of the beauticians saying to the other, "The lawyer called and said I don't have to testify." Now that little tidbit was worth every dollar spent and has given me days if not months of delightful and diverse musings.
Something that I didn't have to imagine today was the fact that the Hot Water tank in the building had broken just prior to my arrival and that there was no hot water left to rinse out my hair. There was no guessing or surmising about the constant danger hovering over all my procedure that I ultimately might have to partake of the so called new beauty treatment of sticking my dyed and foiled head straight into a snowbank in order to complete the colouring process :(.
The Swedish Polar Bear treatment they were trying to call it. $5 extra.
Thankfully the plumbers were able to attend, analyze, and repair the tank almost immediately. Within an hour there was enough measurably and miserably warmish water to rinse my hair without me having to leave the building thus saving me $5, as well as helping avoid the inevitable main street photo opt for the local paper, thus creating more gossip material for others than I had garnered at the salon that day or any other.
A note: Parlour basically comes from the French verb parler which means:
To speak!
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