Letter from the Editor: November '05.(beauty salon visiting experiences)(Editorial)

The Apprentice

I

was introduced to beauty salons by my mother, who used to take me with her ?when she got her hair done (my motheris hair was always done,I not styled and never colored). I would read magazines while Rene would roll my motheris hair in big curlers and then release fat ringlets that heid comb and shape into an airy souffle. The place was always buzzing. Women would sit under helmet hair-?dryers with cotton in their ears, smoking cigarettes and chatting over the din. It was a foreign land with its own rituals, costumes, and language, and it was a mystery to me.

When I got a little older, my mother talked me into submitting my own long, lank hair to Rene or Monsieur Marc or one of those other doting men with no last name. Iid put ?a robe over my shirt, stick my neck in the guillotine-like sink, and then beg for just a trim, ?not a cut, and never a hairdo. At that very moment, Rene or Marc would suddenly ?lose the ability to understand English. Theyid indulge me with the sweetest smile, and ?then whack off four inches, telling me I looked marvelous.

I have since learned to navigate the salon as well as my ...