Ma Hayer

That's Mississippi speak for "my hair". Yes, I'm writing about my hair again. Partly so that any of you whom I may run into at the store will know that very soon, I am going to have this shaggy mess taken care of. It's looking less Audrey Hepburn and more frat boy these days. But I'm mostly writing about my hair because I'm really self-absorbed.

Anyway, one of the really neat things about moving to this small town in Mississippi for the second time around is that I didn't have to wonder who would do my hair. That has to be one of the most stressful things about getting to a new town. You get there, you have boxes, you have to set up utilities, your family is staring at you because they haven't given up on wanting to eat dinners just because you don't know where your skillet or recipe box is located. You're so busy, but the clock is ticking, no, POUNDING IN YOUR HEAD, like The Telltale Heart, because time is running out on the haircut you had on the absolute latest date you could manage in your last town. You'd ask somebody where to go if you knew anybody, but you don't, so you are stuck tracking cute women at Walmart and talking to complete strangers about it. And then, when you finally find a stylist to try, you have to wait three weeks to be seen.

But not this time. I just called the salon I went to before and scheduled an appointment with Zack, who cut my hair six years ago.

Selah.

Zack is such a mystery to me, and probably to the rest of his clientele. He is happily married. In fact, he and his wife are probably one of the most striking couples I've ever seen. He does all the manly activities that most men around here do. He hunts. He fishes. And then he spends his days doing women's hair and talking girl talk.

"Who are you going to use for an OBGYN while you're here?" he asked the last time I went in. He and his wife are expecting their second child, and we're in the young family stage as well, so I guess OBGYN talk is common ground for us, bizarre as it is.

"Get off my back, Zack, I've only figured out my hair so far! I'll pick a doctor and a dentist when I get around to it," I replied.

"Well, we really like ours, so let me know if you need a recommendation."

When I think about that salon, I can't help but think back to the first time I ever went there. Picture a younger, skinnier, newlywed me. I had no snot trails on my dress, nor did I have any goldfish crackers on my breath. I must say, though, I had really pushed the limit on my haircut that time. I was sitting in the lobby, waiting for my appointment, and leisurely flipping through a hair magazine.

There are a couple things you need to know about this town to get an accurate depiction of this story. First of all, this is basically the same town as in the movie "Steel Magnolias". Second of all, when it rains here, it is purely theatrical--it pours and the sky gets really dark. And it was raining like that on this particular day.

While I was waiting, a woman in her late fifties or early sixties came in, sopping wet. She made a real entrance. Heads turned to look at the drenched woman shaking off her umbrella.

The receptionist's eyes got big. "Oh, Mrs. So-and-So! Didn't you get my message? I called to let you know that your stylist was having some pregnancy complications and had to leave to go to her doctor."

The woman's face and shoulders dropped in defeat. "Are you kidding me?" she asked rhetorically, "I walked here! I totaled my car yesterday and I had to walk here!"

Silence.

Then she walked to the receptionist's desk, bursting into tears on the way. She just stood there for a moment crying, and as if trying to explain, asked the receptionist, "Did you hear that my daughter died last week?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did. I was so sorry to hear that." The receptionist sat there for a moment not knowing what to say, and the woman just kept sobbing.

Could this exchange get any worse? I felt compelled to do something to break up the gridlock, so I walked up to the desk and said, "Excuse me. I'd be happy to give you my appointment with Zack. I know it's not who you normally go to, but if you'd like it, you can have it."

"Really?" she asked, sniffling.

"Sure," I said, "I'd be happy for you to have it. Go ahead."

She stood there for a moment staring at me in silence. "Well, honey," she said, "to be honest, you need it more than I do."

I hope that when I get to the salon, it's not raining, and that nobody has lost a child, and that nobody has pregnancy complications, and that I don't somehow try to save the day. My self esteem just can't take the rejection.