Dreamed I was in line to check in at my regular salon. I had been going for years.
I had been waiting for a while because the line was long, but when it came to be my turn an old posh woman with a dawdling toddler in tow shouldered in front of me.
I told her it was my turn. She said she had an appointment. I said I did too. She said something dismissive that I don’t quite recall, and I told her that even rich assholes have to wait in line. She huffed off and the clerk signed me in.
I was in the chair, in the middle of a deep-conditioning treatment, when a team of officious pantsuited women with leather-wrapped iPads and stern faces materialized. The Managers. One blonde, short, in a grey ensemble with long hair worn down her back, the other tall and dark with her hair done up in a tight, tidy bun wearing wire-rimmed glasses. The latter seemed to be taking notes.
My stylist scurried to the wall like a frightened mouse seeking shelter. The women informed me that I was no longer welcome in their salon.
When I asked why, the slightly more fascistic-looking blonde informed me that it was because I had insulted the woman with the designer brat. She had complained.
I explained to them how she had thrown her weight around and that anyone else would have done the same; that I was a regular and had been supporting their business for years. The blonde shifted uneasily, smoothing the hem of her skirt. She disagreed.
I told her it was a disappointment and a fucking shame that after nearly a lifetime of loyalty that my patronage was being reduced to a bottom line, but she remained unmoved. I could practically see the dollar signs in her greedy little eyes.
I asked if I could I at least finish my appointment. In slow motion, a glob of conditioner detached itself from the end of my twisted up hair and landed in an unappetizing bitter splat on the gel mat below.
She begrudgingly agreed, clearly doing me a favour.
The Managers clacked smugly back to wherever it was they’d came from—presumably some designer panopticon from whence they could observe and correct all putrid instances of humanity that would dare to blossom in their pristine establishment.
My stylist returned to the chair and apologetically finished up my hair. He did a great job.