Summer @Summer’s Salon – Prologue

***Notice***

Parts of this story contain detailed descriptions of clothed women’s figure’s and body parts that one can deem to be sexual in nature.  If you are easily offended by such material, please move along.

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I.

The Summer of 1991.  Even thirty plus years ago I remember the sights, sounds, trends, and feelings of that time….a distant memory.  It was a different time, on the very cusp of the rise of the internet and mass consumption of round the clock “News”.  I was a young professional woman learning the ropes and trials of a career and life away from the familiar and comfortable.  Learning about my sexuality, thoughts, feelings, and desires that at the time I found confusing, exciting, scary, and expressive.  I was taught without words from my family and society to be conservative and reserved in mind and body.  Yet I had, and still have; a drive to be experimental and creative, in my looks and thought.  Here is a snippet of some of my youth and story….

A familiar soft squeal and creek from some poorly wearing brake pad greets the sparrows singing merrily on a warming bright morning in late May, 1990.  I pull the parking brake of my light tan Toyota Camry with its now familiar “click, click , click”, and pull the key from the ignition as the automatic shoulder belt retracts to its resting place.

“My Dad would be proud that I still follow his advice regarding the parking brake, but not so happy with that brake sound.  I should get that looked at over the Summer”.

I leave my car in the faculty parking lot of the front cul-de-sac of Higginsville Elementary School, and walk in the front portico.  Higginsville Elementary School, or “HES” is a typical 1960’s era all brick school building that has seen some updates over the years but still retains most of it’s legacy features, charms, and faults.  You have either two room temperature settings, hot or cold!  Thank goodness Spring is well on its way in this North East Maryland town.  Higginsville rests almost equally forty five minutes between Baltimore and Washington D.C., with many families choosing to live in the “Suburbs’, and commute everyday into work.  Although near to two mammoth Urban areas, Higginsville has a small town feel with two small Liberal Arts Colleges, Coopers University or “Coop U”, being my Alma Mater.  I guess I have warm feelings towards this town from my college days and was happy a teaching position opened in the area after my Student Teaching was completed.  Mother of course wanted me to return closer to home in Pennsylvania.  Fortunately, after two successful years teaching Third Grade here at HES, she knows how happy I am here.  The idea dropping and offhand comments to return home have subsided.

I walk briskly through the main steel double doors, then another, and wave to the ladies in the main office.  I glide down the linoleum flooring and light green wall accent tiled hallway.  The hall lightly vertebrates the sound of my short heels….clap, clap, clap.  Everything else is quiet.  The bustling sound of children talking and laughing, running and jostling backpacks is half an hour away.  I open the lock to the wooden door of my room, and am greeted by the wonderful tapestry of my kids artwork, animal projects, collage of pictures from a project on “Everyday Life in Japan”, and Samuel the Salamander, our class mascot.  A construction paper banner with neatly cut out letters spells out “Welcome to Ms. Singer’s class!”  The children’s desks are arranged in squares of four about the room.  As a reward for a great year I have let them arrange the desks themselves to sit with their friends; they have had assigned seats most of the year.

“They are a bunch of chatterboxes, but I will miss them dearly”.  I thought to myself.

A small tear formed in the corner of my left eye, and a small quiver came to my lower lip from the thought of them moving on away from me, onto the carefree days of Summer, and onto the fourth grade.  Being a second year teacher It was still a new concept to me; the cycle of classes coming in and moving on.  The first year teaching right out of college was a whirlwind of mistakes, lessons, triumphs, opportunities, and most importantly…. experience.

“ I need to stay busy and get on with this day”,  I said to myself.

I hurriedly put some week-old lettuce from my lunch sack into Samuel’s cage, and checked his water.  He moves lazily at first, but then strikes with ferocity at the wilted lettuce.

“Hungry little Boy, aren’t you!” I exclaim with a wry smile.

I can honestly say I have never felt one-hundred percent comfortable around poor Samuel, and I wonder how he will get along with “Buster”, my friendly but ungainly Tom Cat back at the apartment.  Somehow, they will have to make due over Summer break.    I stride to my elderly and worn teaching desk that resides in the catty corner.  It sits opposite the entrance door at the front of the room, close to the chalkboard.  I sit down, cross my thin bare legs, and adjust  the lower edge of my pink mid-length shirt down closer to my knees.  I look down to my teal floral blouse, adjust my gold sparrow pin given from my Grandmother; and notice my neckline has sunk a little too low and revealing for today.  Although far from “well endowed”, my chest is not flat either, and fully fills the C-cup bra, with the skin at the top of my breasts slightly protruding past the wire frame padding of the cups.  The skin is soft and clear and fairly white, and spaced proportionately to their size.  I often felt my breasts were quite possibly the best feature of my body, well knowing my left breast was slightly larger than my right.  Not obvious at first, but enough that I felt a little self conscious about it in certain situations with a dress.  I pull up the “V” of the blouse by tugging the fabric up at the shoulders, and everything is now as it should be.  I look briefly at one of the two pictures on my desk; of myself, my Sister, Mother and Father.

We are standing casually before going on Big Thunder Mountain Rail Dash, at Super Wally World, the Summer year before I entered College at Coop U.  It was our last trip as a singular family, before College and true Adulthood.  Before the tug of real life away from safety and security.  Before uncertainty; but surprisingly at the first pangs of awakening.  Desire that at the time of my eighteen years could not be described with words.  My hair was long, barely past my shoulders and slightly teased, enough to give a sense of body.  Bing bangs and hairspray were beginning to rule the day.  My little baby sister Carry is standing next to me in front, with the sideways pony scrunchy that was normal for pre-teen adolescents of the time.  My Mom with exaggerated puffy bangs and shoulder length bob, lightly and lovingly grabbing my shoulders.  My Dad with receding hairline and extended waist; twenty years past his prime days as a starting Offensive Lineman for Kilpatrick High School.  Mom and Dad saved three years for that trip;. and they never came out and expressed it in the slightest.  I knew this from overhearing their muffled  late night conversation.  They were never as quiet as they thought.

Making it now halfway through the last Monday of my Sophomore Elementary teaching year, I sit  indiscreetly and usually early to the most counterclockwise portion of the U-shaped joined teachers lounge desk.  The windowless small lounge room is devoid of sound and character, except for the gentle humming of the Diet Pepsi Emblazoned drink machine and its brother the ever tempting Snack Machine.  I collect my own thoughts away from temptation and slightly bow my head as I bite another mouthful of Turkey Sandwich.  Without excluding any grace, Mrs. Debra Toddington strolls into the room.  She is a fellow third grade teacher, with quite a tenure ahead of mine.  I would venture to guess her age then at mid-fifties; normally wearing some sort of slacks and blouse with matching coat or sweater with a full squared frame befitting her age.  She was taller than most women, displaying some semblance of the gangly vigor from her youth playing High School and College Women’s AA Basketball.  Yet for many reasons I doubt her ability at that time to tell you even the most elementary strategies and practices of the game.  Her face, mouth, and teeth are long and lack any beauty.  Her nose is pointed at the end with an abnormally solid and perfect bridge, carefully revealing the surgery in her youth from a broken nose playing High School Ball.  Her eyes are slightly sunken and with the slight appearance of brown bags under them.  Loose uneven curls overflow the tops of her ears with a long tapered neat short nape.  Gray only approached the roots of her brown hair as the time has lengthened between cut and colors.  At best I could describe it as a fake and lifeless brown, with no character, highlights, or depth.  Just a light brown, no more or less.  All in all, a woman then fit for her age, with a Jolly character but vacant of deep understanding and knowledge.  She was my assigned first year teaching “Mentor” by our Department Head Mrs. Simmons; and I took in her lessons and experience at first with earnestness.  Shortly later on, I felt her ways and methods with educating children dated and unimaginative to say the least.  Even with her deficiencies in teaching, I still admire her as a Woman and Mother.  Her only son, Patrick, was born with a mental difficulty such as he could never live a normal unaccompanied life.  She and her husband care for him with great love, and gave him a full life to the best of their ability, which I respect and appreciate then and now.

“Hello Kat, having a good last School Year Monday?”  Debra said with an arching smile.

“I am.  Enjoyment to the fullest”  I said with a hint of sarcasm.

We talked briefly about the goings on of the day with our students and Summer plans, so much as they were.  Debra went on in some detail on Patricks latest infatuation, I believe it was Kraft rubber cheese sandwiches and ketchup.  I listened with feigned interest as I read a month old Newsweek.  Princess Dianna was on the cover and I liked her poise and sincerity in the midst of what I thought of then as Stuffy Old British Tradition and Power.  With no real meaning, I lifted my left hand forefingers and casually slid down the tresses of my left hair part, to the very end.  My (almost) perfectly straight dark auburn hair reached my shoulders with no bang or fringe.  It was then without gray or silver, but at my age of 25; is of no note.  Towards the end of its travel my fingers bound in the lower strands of hair, to the ever slight rocking of my head to the left.

“Oh, I think you have a little bit of tangle or split end going on there dear” Debra said.

“I’m sure you’re right.  I answered.  “I have been having a harder time getting my brush through this Mop!  Must be time or a trim”.

Once the words exited my mouth, I realized I had not had a trim in some time.  The last time must have been nearly three months ago.

“Oh my dear, you are certainly due for a cut.  My cousin Summer has been doing hair for so many years,  I can’t remember when she didn’t.  Right out of High School probably”, she mused.  “If it wasn’t for my best friend Darlene doing my hair, I would go to her.  She keeps up on all the newest cuts and styles.  I may have her card in my purse”.

She slowly clamored over to the engorged worn purse by her seat, and produced a standard yet embossed business card with a phone number and address.  “Summer’s Salon ….ready for your next change in style?”, inquisitively highlights the top of the rectangle card.  Knowing the normal state of Debra’s hair, I already knew she did not partake in the services of this establishment.  The “change” portion of the card tingled my senses.  I witnessed an extraordinary hair change not long before this conversation.  Pointedly, at my last trim appointment that three months ago at Heritage Mall.

“Summer is always eager for new clients.”  Darlene interjected past my thoughts.  “I always recommend her to friends. Give her a call if you don’t have a regular”.

Darlene placed the card in my outstretched hand.  I took the card openly and reached again to touch my attention lacking locks of brunette stands.  Many of the ends are very dry and split from the past winter’s indoor heat and regular shampooing.  I vividly remember my last hair appointment and the stamp it left on my imagination and desires, even if only as a witness of the events as they transpired.  I stare past Darlene’s familiar silhouette and open hand, as my mind escapes into recent memory….

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II.

The place I would normally go to get my hair trimmed every two months or so is “Vacation Hair”, whose slogan entices you to “take a break from your average hair!” It is a normal run-of-the-mill beige interior chain type hair salon (of the time period), who took walk-ins for cuts and styles, and appointments for simple colors and perms.  This particular one is located at nearby Heritage Mall, in an adequately sized store front. There is a small sitting area on the left side of the storefront, which includes the check-in/cashier desk.  Inside, six black salon chairs reside; two behind the desk, and four along the opposite wall perpendicular to the large storefront window.  A two place hair drying area including two hair wash bins encompass the remaining space open to customers, towards the back.

I am always a walk-in, (preferably on a weeknight) to avoid the wait and craziness of places such as these on the weekends.  This last visit was in the middle of February on a mundane Tuesday after dinner evening; at least for me.  I was welcomed nicely at the counter by Tabitha, a thin blonde woman with a soft perplexity and cheerful disposition.  I remember her cutting my hair on prior visits and was always satisfied with the results.  She took me back, gave me a relaxing wash, guided me to her booth and began the laborious task of combing, sectioning, holding the sections with clips, de-clipping required areas, and trimming my long locks.  We conversed about my thick hair, jobs, her kids activities and husbands humorous idiosyncrasies.  Susan, her agreeable and energetic permed brunette co-patriot, sat to the right in her own station chair listening casually and furnishing the occasional laugh and consensus about men, kids, home life, and disconcertment over her now 10 minute late cut and style appointment.

An in-rush of two little sets of scampering feet barged through the glass paned double handled Salon doors.  Two dark haired vivacious children, a boy and a girl (maybe 8 and 6 by my best teacher estimate), hauled in each a packaged “Ninja Gator” and “My Little Kitty” just purchased.  Mom wedged through the door, catching it just before the closer slammed it shut.  The two little ones hoisted themselves one each into two of the waiting room beige armchairs.  The only recognition of their current surroundings being the scrunched nose and frown of the little girl, most likely from the odorous perming chemicals that always seem to linger in hair mall salons.  I was assured this scene was choreographed by Mom, providing a treat in exchange for strict obedience during her hair appointment.

The Mother herself was of average stature and very early into her thirties if I was to guess.  Not exactly thin, but of a build that showed a very nice and curvaceous figure.  Her face was slightly rounded, but well proportioned and fair, with darkish brunette hair almost touching the collar of her shirt.  It had been permed, although it appeared to have been some time ago and fairly grown out.  The medium curls having lost most of their shape and bounce.  Susan established an initial curt welcome because of the tardiness, but could not hold onto the cool sentiment upon seeing the children and slightly labored breathing of the Mom, and quickly returned to her outgoing and talkative self.  The young mother quickly retrieved a folded magazine tearing from her turquoise golden trimmed purse before being caped, washed, and hair combed out to the best the languishing curls would allow.  Susan locked eyes with her wearing a broad smile through the reflection of the mirror directly in front of her regular salon station to my right.  The mother returned Susan’s gaze and smiled back.   A slight anticipation could be felt by all around, except for the preoccupied children.  A picture clipping drew signs that this was not to be a simple trim this evening.

“I am feeling a vibe that you are up for a change tonight”, Susan beamed to her caped client.

“Well….as a matter of fact….yes.” The Mom replied reluctantly at first.  “I feel I need to change this mop!  It’s grown out and I don’t want another perm.  But something new and easy.  Spring is on its way too and I don’t want to feel as weighed down as last year.  I am looking for a new and exciting me … .  I have a picture here.”  She unfolded and presented the magazine picture to Susan.

“Yes … .my, this is a change!!” Susan exudes as she studies the intricacies of the cut.  “Very cute and it will be so light and easy for you!”  She glanced at her watch, being later in the evening.  “I think we have the time for this.”

Susan and the Mother talked, hand motioned a few details of the cut, and both nodded enthusiastically in mutual agreement and readiness. Susan rested the creased magazine picture against a few product bottles facing outward on the station.   Tabitha was more than halfway through with my own cut as I could see in my reflection most of my hair was now resting at or near my shoulders.  I couldn’t make out all the motions and conversation next to me, but a sideways glance at the far pic at Susan’s booth foretold a very short cut in store for the now nervously chatty Mom of two.

With everything set now with her client, Susan went to the right corner of her station.  A clattering of plastic and metal commenced as she laid differing plastic colored pieces and three sets of scissors on a dark brown towel.  She opened the upper station drawer and produced two metallic clippers, one much smaller than the other, and both plugged into the lower power receptacle and placed on top the towel.  The Mom fiddled with her cape and looked back momentarily at the two little ones to gauge their behavior; but quickly snapped back to center attention as Susan began sectioning and clipping several side and upper sections of her still damp curly hair to the top of her head.  All of her hair from about an eighth of an inch above the top of her earlobe was left to dangle out of the secured portions of hair and combed down straight.  A distinct line of these two transition areas, from top bundled to laying straight down,  was very apparent and done with intent.  I overheard a snippet of conversation as to whether the Mother had ever had her hair cut this short.  A brief head shake, an emphatic verbal “No”, and a nervous short laugh escaped from the chaired young woman.

“Ohhhh……., I think we are in for a show!” Clamored Tabitha.  “I love short makeovers like this!  You’re in great hands my dear” she said to the smiling mother.

“Here, let me spin you sideways dear so you can watch”, as she snipped a few more fine pieces from my damp ends.

Tabitha flipped my chair to the right with enthusiasm so now I was front and center to the Mom’s left side profile for this short hair metamorphosis.  I can tell Tabitha’s speed and enthusiasm for my own hair diminished at the prospect of seeing her partner perform a late in the day exciting cut.

Susan returns to the towel and with a quick adjustment and “snap”, fastens the blue, what I now know as a “guard”, onto the larger of the two Hair Clippers.  Walking to the back of her expectant client, she does a double check that the clippers power chord is free and unencumbered.

“Allllright……Everyone ready?  Susan announces as she gently centered and slightly declined the Mom’s head forward with her left hand.

“This will be a big change for your Mommy….I hope you will recognize her.” Susan states as she darts a glance and smiles at the waiting kids who both look up from their amusements in slight but brief bewilderment.

Susan raises the purple mouthed shiny Clippers level with her chest  and “snaps” the side trigger button On.  The sudden pop of the strong AC motor and buzzing whir of the sliding jagged steel razors permeates to all corners of the Salon.  The Mother flinches ever so slightly from the sudden jolt of machine noise but remains staring straight ahead.  Her eyes are wide and mouth poised slightly open as if to release a remark or murmur of speech but no sound emerges from her throat.  Susan places the hungry humming clippers directly below the end of the combed strands at the center base of the Mother’s slim neck right above the fastened cape and gently pushes them upward.  The blue guard disappears briefly into the dark strands and the motor bogs slightly, before the guard emerges victoriously at the above sectioned line of separated hair.  Stands of damp brunette locks tumble lifelessly to the floor.  Susan gives the now raised clippers a little flick with her wrist to eject any remaining severed tresses before immediately diving into another section of the Mothers nape.  She works quickly, and soon with care and honed concentration, I could observe the once long strands near the Mom’s sectioned portion of crown to her lower nape now completely gone forming a small curled pile at Susan’s shoes.

Susan strode to her client’s right side, and while still in full control of the vibrating clippers, tilted the Mother’s head slightly to her left shoulder.  The machine continued to depart copious amounts of dark locks from her head; as having done to many scores of other past customers.  Now all of the previous lite Salon chatter ceased.  I searched the busily clippering beautician’s face and found an intent but emotionless energy with her gaze being laser focused to the task at hand. The Mom’s mouth was now closed and the initial shock of metallic blades bringing rapid and long lasting change to herself had slightly deadened.  More and more hair fell briskly to the floor.  Susan glided to the left of the Mother’s head and repeated the same shearing ritual, but with her back and head now completely eclipsing any view I did have of the Mother’s unfolding changes.  A few more vibrating passes and the tumbling sheets of brunette curls began to lessen.  Susan snapped the trigger button shut once more, ceasing the machine noise, and stood back to examine her work with a furrowed brow.  The Mother was still calm but ridged without any motion; as if mentally coming to terms with the momentous change that was taking place.

I now had the unobstructed field of view to see the shearing first hand.  There now existed a mushroomed ridge of curled piled hair above the now empty sides and back of her head.  The clippered areas, being now all conjoined, were very short but still not allowing any scalp to peek through.  The stylist stepped up to the sample picture for a quick gaze, studied it for a moment, and returned to her tools at brown towel.  A short flipping off of the blue and the snap in of the purple guard took but a moment.  Susan quickly engaged the clipper trigger again and immediately returned to go over the freshly shorn areas on the Mother’s head for a second time.  Her work was faster now, gently tilting and pushing her clients head to get the best angle for the clippers to do the work.  Ever so little more hair was removed, gathering like long dust on the clipper guard and around the top of the silken black cape. The overall effect could be seen as just an ever so slight amount of scalp now showing through the brunette screen of what could be best described as short brush bristles.  Susan, once satisfied with her going over, shut off the droning buzz and softly brushed the exposed nape and temple areas of the Mom with her left hand before setting the warm clippers aside on the towel.  This was now a chance for the caped Mother to examine the beautician’s work for herself.  Unmasking her left and then right arm from under the dark cape, she tentatively at first, then with new fascination explored the newly exposed areas of her lightened head.

“Oh, wow…..this feels…..wonderful.” The young Mother gleaned.  “It is so soft and sooooo short!”

Susan now acquired one of the small pairs of scissors from the towel, and a small black straight comb in her left hand.  She transitioned to then unpin areas of the Mother’s top remaining hair, pulling various sections straight with the comb; then with a quick switch to her fingers and still holding the hair in a perpendicular motion, cut the length she deemed adequate at the moment.  This work continued over and over, and over again as Susan diligently worked on the rapidly decreasing stock of the Mom’s top curls.  It was hypnotic for me to observe in my close watch post.  A trance effect had also descended on the caped Mother; her eyes now half open as her head gently rocked to the gentle tugging and arranging of her head.  Every few moments a simple ‘shink…shink’ reverberated in the Salon as Susan’s scissors snapped shut without falter.

A smile graced Susan’s face as she worked.  “This cut is already looking great on you.  It’s going to be so simple for you in the morning to get ready.  You’re gonna love it.”

My hypnotic session of watching short hair fruition was brought to an immediate end when the violent whirr and blowing of a hair dryer blasted me back to my senses.  Tabitha had finally come to an end on the details of my own cut and moved into the last stages for my hair care visit.  After the drying, I was pleased to find Tabitha had not swiveled my chair in the slightest and I was now at full attention again on the main attraction.  Other’s outside the Salon have even begun to take a keen interest.  Two women with large shopping bags stopped and peered in the Salon window to witness the metamorphosis first hand.

At this point, the Mother’s rigorously dissected curls formed a brown hulk all around Susan’s feet.  The once dotted over chestnut possessions set atop the young Mother’s head were now nothing more than old curly castoffs to be trampled under foot and swept into the dustbin.  Only a slight waviness remained in her top tresses that now measured no more than 5 inches, though many areas were much less than that in length, with all the dampness departed.  The mushroom shape of the cut was now obvious to all with no top hair extending below the clippered lower circumference starting at the tips of her ear lobes.  Susan had in my momentary hair blower absence, cut the Mother’s bangs to be perhaps 1/8th inch above her thinly teased arched eyebrows.  A forward facing soft and feminine look juxtaposed the more severe transition of the top and crown,to the very short nape and temples.  Suddenly, Tabitha swung my chair to face the center of her own station again..

“Alright, you are all set my dear…looking so gorgeous!  And I think most of the show next door is over.”  Tabitha pronounced with a slight giggle.  “How fun!”.

She neatly removed my cape and quickly brushed the few remaining loose strands of hair from my sweater and neckline.  I had lost track of the final completing steps of my own cut; away in thought and the complete transformation that had been taking place besides me.  Sitting straight, I examined myself briefly in the station mirror.  The woman who gazed back at me with her straight brunette long Bobbed hair was as refined and attractive as ever, but also the same and fairly unchanged as well.  For the first time I felt pangs of longing for change to my own appearance and to perhaps feel the wild swirls of excitement and vulnerability that my neighbor experienced for the first time.  As I exited my seat, I momentarily locked the corner of the eyes with the changed Mother of two and smiled to her sincerely.

“Your new style really looks ravishing on you”  I stated in earnest as I glided by her seat.

Her eyes had registered and acknowledged the sentiment, but she had to remain head centered and still. Susan was into the final details of the cut, just before the final blowout and styling.  She retrieved the other yet unused small silver trimmers from the brown towel and engaged the tiny side trigger.  This small device produced a simple “click” followed by a soft friendly hum.  Not as intimidating or aggressive as its larger guarded sibling.  Susan bent down close to the Mother’s head, perhaps a mere foot from the current but constantly changing area of attention.  The Mom’s temples, having a somewhat blurry resolution of hair outline, were now honed by the trimmers into fine right triangles.  A trimmer over comb technique permeated the final touches as the hair from the extreme edges of the triangle sideburns, all along her head in between the ear lobes down to the side edges of her nape were trimmed and swiped to a neatly defined edge.  The remaining hair appeared so fine now in these areas that her light skin, untouched by the sun, rimmed the outskirts of the hairline.  Susan worked the lower bottom portion of her nape into a rounded taper that exhibited the same fineness and absence of hair.  Susan’s final trimmer workings used no comb at all, but touched the high frequency blades directly to the Mother’s skin.  She gingerly yet momentarily lifted the top of the black cape to expose her clients full soft shoulders, removing all of the fine delicate fuzz and long outliers from the base of her nape down to the top of her exposed and elegant shoulder contour.  Continued compact swipes of the trimmer removed all fuzz from the edges of the crisply tipped sideburns down along both sides of her rosy accentuated round cheeks to the chin line.

Tabitha now met me at the reception both as we exchanged final pleasantries and I paid and tipped for her services.  As I shuddered my purse and briskly turned around to my left, I wanted one final sight of the change I had witnessed from its inception to near conclusion.  Tabitha thanked me again and noted a final observation as I left.

“That was sure a show tonight.  Crazy to think, but could you go through a change like that?  I know I couldn’t”

Turning my head over my left shoulder, I answered with a shrewd darting smile and a simple, “perhaps”.

I return my gaze right to see the side profile of Susan hovering over the right of the enchanting new Mother, with blow dryer and round brush in hand; volumizing and lifting the now vibrant remains of her clients once tired perm.  Now an energized mushrooming mass of banged waves over finely clippered refinement.  A woman born “a new”, confident and unencumbered; needing no external affirmation of beauty.  But fully acknowledging those who saw it and her new freedom. The Mother, now relaxed and sitting with a comfortable poise, her eyes met mine in the station’s mirror reflection as I left.  Casting a return gaze into mine, her small lips fixed a smile.  Quickly, her right eye flashed a wink and then quickly returned to its rest.  Seeing this, I quickened my stride to the glass exit in a meek covered panic visible to no one, but acute to myself.  I now desired an extreme and abrupt transformation to myself.  I wanted to feel a sense of raw fearful change and excitement; to have these long tresses trimmed in any way from my head!

I opened the Salon exit to return to my dull, comfortable, and boring norm.  Having the same abruptness sliding through the heavy doorway that the now newly transformed young Mother once entered, I could hear the suddenly attentive daughter’s revelation….

“Mommy, look at you!!  You’re hair is sooooo short.”

To be continued….?

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