The Salon

She walked into the salon yielding her phone. She was mid-conversation. I glanced up, lending a slight smile because she demanded attention. Her hair was raven black. She was sporting expensive shoes, a leopard top with a cashmere sweater over it. She instructed the stylist to ‘make up her color while she made another phone call’, it was clear she wasn’t waiting for a reply.

While the stylist waited patiently for her to speak with her assistant, we all learned that she had just sent American Express $2,000 and their bill just didn’t make sense. She also barked out an array of computer problems she was experiencing, re-confirmed an up-coming surgery (August 25 as a matter of fact), and unleashed a string of complaints of just how dumb those she encounter were on a daily bases. For the rest of her visit, she made and received a number of calls and strutted around the salon as if it were her home.

By the quiver in her voice and the lines on her face, I would guess her to be in the late 60’s – mature enough to have an understanding of her actions on others.

I must confess the salon can give the illusion of a stage and I have found myself guilty of seeking the center of it. I have told witty stories knowing I have a captive audience. I have found myself speaking louder to overcome the sounds of the air conditioner, music, voices, and hair blowers. I have also heard stories - wickedly funny stories - and corporate secrets that shouldn’t been aired in public. Perhaps the environment creates this sense of entitlement – the pampering and self-indulgence. Perhaps, the salon is place of freedom and security – where all is told in confidence. Perhaps . . . .not?