My first visit to a hair stylist. price tag: $50 dollars. Reason for visit: shalom bait. My parents insisted that I do something to make myself look "less like a bum" for my first day at the National Institute for Neurological Disorders and Stroke, so I shaved, and allowed my mother to take em to her hairdresser.
Anna-Maria, an all-business Trinidad native with a sharp enough cut to have passed into the cast of the Fifth element, proceeded to meticulously
comb out,
separate,
pour dark gel gunk into,
and twist ever so tightly
my curls until she had transformed them into chesnut-colored chords descending backwards from my forehead, holding the consistency of a soft chrome.
Feeling thoroughly like my elderly-lady neighbors beside me, I sat beneath one of those crazy hair dryers for a while and talked to my mom. What a trip.
I don't know if my mother got what she was looking for out of the deal, but Anna-Maria seemed pretty satisfied.
All tied back now, my hair still feels her grip.