The Man in A Salon Effect

Well, if you’ve read my last post, you’ll know that I escaped the “pith” or “nightmare” of old ladies, depending on your definition…and I promised to tell you what happened next.

Well, Sunny decided that she needed her eyebrows waxed. (That’s something I’ll never understand, my wife will gladly pay to have hot wax poured on her face and her eyebrows pulled out by the root…but actually faints at the mere sight of a needle).

So, being a good husband, I rode to the salon with her, instead of having her drop me off at home.

Now I felt what all men feel when stepping into the estrogen ocean that is a beauty salon…fear. It’s like being Jewish and suddenly finding yourself at Nazi party headquarters during WW2. You know you just…don’t…belong.

So we walked in, me in my patented Ninja Stance for when the Salon Denizens attempt to tear gas me and sacrifice me to the Revlon God.

“Hello!” Said one of the hairdressers (pardon me…stylists) and suddenly started talking to Sunny about things that I have no idea how she knew about. (They sneak into my house at night and take notes…I know it….The almighty Revlon gets hungry).

I also got a cursory smile and a “hello”.

You see, at this point, I was a ‘Female Accompanied Male’, not unheard of in the Salon Cult, although frowned upon by all concerned.

Then, Sunny went into the back room with one of her ‘stylists’ (pardon me, Paid Torturer).

A strange thing happened. I took a seat near the front, and another stylist walked in, and looked right through me. She didn’t even acknowledge my presence.

A second stylist walked past without a second (or even a first) glance in my direction.

It was odd. Usually people in the South are very friendly. I didn’t even get acknowledged.

Then, two more customers walked in…and I realized what was going on.

You see, I was sitting near the door. The first customer walked in, glanced at me, and there was a moment of shock in her eyes…before they glazed over and sort of ‘slid’ away.

What we had here was a case of forced perceptual cropping.

I was an Unattended Male™ in a Beauty Salon.

It was said that when Captain Cook’s ship anchored off the coast of Australia, the Aborigines couldn’t actually see it. His ship simply didn’t exist in their view of the world. They couldn’t comprehend that such a thing could exist…so to them, it didn’t.

(For completeness, apparently a local medicine man noticed that the waves where breaking differently as they hit the boat. He stared for a day until he finally saw the ship. When he announced its presence to the rest of his people, they could finally see it).

I was experiencing the same thing. An Unattended Male™ in a Beauty Salon simply can’t happen…so the customers and staff couldn’t actually see me.

At the front of the Salon they had all kinds of crap for sale, including 8-ball keychains. I took two off them and held them up to my ears like earrings.

Not a single comment.

I coughed loudly and suddenly, and no one looked up.

I was invisible.

I considered dancing a jig around the room, or covering my entire head with styling mousse. For a brief moment I considered making myself a fort out of the waiting room chairs, fashioning a crude bow from hairclips and scrunchies, and declaring war on the old lady getting a perm in chair three.

Unfortunately, just as I was finishing up my head-dress (feathers made from trashy romance novels and wig catalogues), Sunny made her entrance, the skin around her eyebrows so red, she looked like she was wearing war-paint.

The spell was broken. I was again a “Female Accompanied Male™’, and therefore plainly visible to the rest of the Salon denizens. I hastily dropped the plastic head I’d just scalped, and said:

“Ready to go, sweetie?”

(Warning, the above story may contain some slight exaggerations…you have been warned).