Salon Gossip Is The Best. No Matter What.
Hair salon scuttlebutt is probably the only thing Hollywood’s gotten right. Yes guys, we’re guilty as charged. The actual volume of gossip going down at salons every second of the day is protected by Homeland Security because if you really knew, chaos would reign. But make no mistake, gossip isn’t limited to negative conversations about people (typically other women), although claiming that isn’t the largest percentage of chit chat would be disingenuous.
Today, while sitting in my stylist’s chair, a client of the woman working beside Kate arrived for her appointment and the customary flurry of catch up conversation began between the two. The were both animated as ‘What have you been doing?!’ and ‘Girl! I have got SOOOO much to tell you!’ were bandied about.
About five minutes after the young woman arrived, I glanced in the mirror and saw that like me, Kate was engrossed in the conversation unfolding beside us. She wielded her scissors around with precision as she shaped my hair but her pursed lips indicated the last thing on her mind were my split ends.
I didn’t dare speak for fear of missing what was happening two feet beside us but, as the two ladies walked off to the shampoo bowls and were safely out of hearing distance, I asked, ‘Did she say there was vomit in the swimming pool?’
‘What,’ Kate asked. ‘I’m sorry. I was trying to hear what they were saying.’
‘I know. Me too.’ I repeated my question.
‘No, I think she said she thought she was going to be sick in the swimming pool because of all the condensation on the windows.’
‘She must have been at an indoor pool,’ I ruminated.
‘Yeah,’ Kate agreed. ‘I bet it smelled musty too with all this rain.’
‘You know it did. No wonder she almost got sick. Just thinking about it makes me sick,’ I said. Then, a few minutes later, I remarked, ‘You were listening hard.’
‘Was I?’ Kate laughed in surprise. She hadn’t even realized it, she said.
‘Hard. Like, I bet you need some Advil so your ears won’t be sore in the morning.’
In the middle of applying product on my hair before sending me out the door, Kate stopped and asked, ‘You know. Why were we all up in that?’
I opened my mouth to respond, but realized I couldn’t answer her question. Doing so would expose the sad state of both our lives when we were both guilty of hanging on every word of a story that involved puke in a pool.
I’ve decided the two ladies took advantage of the genetic code buried in every woman that signals her mouth to close, ears to perk and hearing to sharpen when words, no matter which, are uttered in tones indicative of juicy scandal.
I feel confident that had they both been reciting the lyrics to ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ we’d have been no less engaged.