They called me then, and a kind of pouty-mouthed young man drapedme in silver and plastic and said, "So what are we doing today?" I wasgoing to offer my usual apologetic request--lately, when I go to thehairdresser, I always feel badly that I'm not a more exciting client, butall of a sudden I just got mad. (I also got a hot flash at the same timewhich seemed sort of perfect to me.) I got mad for all the times I've hadthese snobby people work on me and not see me, stand over me yanking at myhair with their face turned away from me, chatting with another stylist. Isaid, "Well I'm not doing anything. You, I hope, will figureout a way to get the gray back in my hair." I almost covered my mouth inamazement after I said this. I hadn't known I was going to say it, Ireally hadn't. But I realized at that moment that I did want my gray back,because in getting it, I'd be losing something else that I never reallywanted in the first place: a corrosive sense of falseness, moving from theoutside in. A sense of shame. Robert lifted up a strand of my hair asthough it were dog shit. "Well, what's on here?" he asked. And Isaid whatever the last hairdresser had put on it. He said well that wasn'the. I said it certainly wasn't, that obviously coming to him once wasquite enough for anyone.

It had gotten very quiet in the shop. People hadstopped working; the stylist at the end station had turned off hisblowdryer to listen better and his client sat still, looking out throughhair that had been brushed forward over her face. And then a man came outfrom the back room, dressed in the standard black uniform. He had a way ofwalking that let me know he was the owner, or manager, or something. Hekept his face turned slightly to the side; evidently no one was quiteworthy of a full glance. "Is there some problem here?" he asked. And Isaid yes at the same time that Robert said no. The boss man raised hiseyebrows, smiled a smile that looked as though it could be chipped off hisface and used to open a can. "Well," he said. "Would it be something I canhelp with?" I said yes indeed. I said he could train his employees to be alittle more human, to understand that when you came into a beauty parloryou felt naked. And if you came into a beauty parlor when you were fiftyyou felt naked and invisible both, which was a very odd and terriblefeeling they might want to be sensitive to, especially since older womentended to tip a lot better than younger women. From the reception room, Iheard the sound of applause, the sound of one person clapping. It was thewoman waiting for highlights, I was sure.

The man asked, in a kind oftired way, what was it that I wanted, exactly. I told him I wanted thegray back in my hair. He said well that was easy, all I had to do was letit grow. I said no, I wanted all the other junk that had begun fading toget off of there right now. He said they could try, but he couldn'tguarantee anything. I said what else is new. He said pardon me? I said what else is new, you never guarantee anything, do you know how many timeswomen go home from the beauty parlor and weep? He said he doubtedthat happened very often. The woman with the hair combed over herface pushed it aside and said, "No, Henry, you're wrong. It happens allthe time." Henry turned to her in a very careful way. "Has that happenedto you, Lucy?" He said. "You've never told me you've been unhappy withanything we've done here."