First Rule of the Beauty Parlor Name: Nobody Talks About the Beauty Parlor

First Rule of the Beauty Parlor Name: Nobody Talks About the Beauty Parlor

Guys, this column is for you in particular, as I have just had a major revelation.

I have a talent. (No, that's not the revelation.)

I can be invisible.

Not literally of course, but I can almost drop completely off the human radar screens. I am something of a social chameleon, and can blend into almost any group. In fact, if I concentrate, I can actually blend into the background; it almost becomes like I'm not there at all. While this ability is something of a drag when at a party or going clubbing, it's perfect for a chronicler of the human condition. It's a talent that came in handy for Sir Richard Burton on his Pilgramage to Mecca, and came in doubly so for me as I ventured deep into forbidden territory to bring you this column.

Sometimes, I have to fight and strain to bring you the latest news and information on our twisted human existence; other times, like today, these stories just fall into my lap like hair from the barber's shears. Which brings me to the beauty parlor, a realm heretofore unpenetrable by men.

Oh sure, you can go there and get your hair cut, but as any woman will confirm, the actual haircutting is the smallest part of what goes on inside those hallowed walls. Similar to the afternoon golf game, or the business lunch, male rituals we are all familiar with, going to the beauty parlor is the place where women can let their hair down while they, er, let their hair down. I mean, come on, you guys didn't think that your ladies really need to get their hair professionally washed, cut, dried, combed, and curled once a week, did you? After all, they've been doing it themselves for most of their lives, right?

Nope, the big attraction is that they can get together and talk about us and all of our shortcomings in excruciating detail. It's very similar to the "going to the bathroom in pairs" phenomena that's left countless men staring off into space, waiting for their dates to return. Now this isn't really a well kept secret, having been discovered and reported to us two decades ago by Martin Wilson of Bethchester MA. (May his poor soul rest in peace.) The true secret is the one I inadvertantly discovered last week.

The circumstances were somewhat harrowing, and it is with fear and trepidation that I've decided to relay it to you now. I also note in passing that I have no plans of suicide, taking up any dangerous hobbies, or going on long trips in the near future.

Just in case I disappear, I want the truth to be known.

Now, normally, I get my hair cut by a local lady who cuts hair for our whole extended family, but she was busy last week so I got an appointment at a salon in Sevierville. Yes, a salon; it's too hard to find an honest to goodness barber shop anymore. In fact, the only one I know of is up in Erwin, and I don't plan on making that drive again ever. I made the 3 hour round trip 5 times a week for almost 4 years and brother, I don't care if I never see those roads again.

Anyway, I went to Chez Gertrudina's for a quick haircut so I'd be reasonably presentable for the Christmas pictures later this week. (That's another important tip for you daters, by the way. Most men make the mistake of getting a haircut the day of the date. They think they can impress the girl by showing her that they went to great lengths to look good for the date. But the smarter dater gets his hair cut a week before the date. He impresses his date by showing her that he always looks this good.)

For a man, there's something vaguely intimidating about a salon. When you first walk in, something just tells you that you really don't belong, and that if you aren't on your best behavior, dreadful things may happen to your hair. Most people don't know this, but the mullet was invented as a punishment for Billy Bob Hoedecker who loudly passed gas while in the salon.

Twice.

Sadly, this was one case where the plan backfired. Who knew that he and his redneck buddies would actually like looking like the north end of a southbound mule?

I don't know what it is that makes the place so forbidding; maybe it's the smell of the chemicals, or the pictures of androgynous models on the walls with impossibly perfect hair. Maybe it's just an instinctive respone, brought on by centuries of evolution; when a man walks into a woman's salon, he's on enemy ground, and he knows it.

When I walked into the place, I was pleased that it was just two stylists and me. Ginni took me back to begin the cutting, and I leaned back in the seat, and just tried to blend in. I succeeded, because after a few minutes, Ginni and Bunni (Ever noticed that stylists names always end in a vowel, and it's usually "i"? A trait they share in common with exotic dancers, I do believe. Hmmm. I just may have found the seed for another column. The things I do for you people...) began talking as if I wasn't even there. Apparently, Ginni was having a hard time dealing with her son, who was getting out of hand. She tallied up his offenses, which were long and mostly minor, but the sheer volume was incredible. Bunni allowed that her youngster was a bit of a rapscallion as well, and that she was having to take harsh actions to reign in her hellion.

They went back and forth for a bit, sharing their sad tales when Bunni suddenly spoke with real venom.

"You know what the worst part of the whole thing was? Frank said I was going too easy on the kid and he was right! I hate that!"

Ginni echoed her, saying that her husband had also said the same thing, and now that they were following his plan, her kid was straightening up. Ginni said she was mad at her husband for three weeks simply because he was right.

"Men are right," she spat, "and that sucks!"

Well folks, truths like this don't come without a heavy price, and I don't mind telling you I was a bit nervous, because it was about that time in the conversation that Ginni, who was trimming my eyebrows with some very sharp scissors, realized that there was a man in the room, and they'd just revealed more than they should've.

An oppressive silence descended over the room, as Ginni continued to move the scissors ever closer to my eye, trimming my eye brows.

"Listen buster, and listen good. What's said in the Beaty Parlor stays in the Beauty Parlor, got it? If I find out you blab any of this to anyone, well, let's just say that your next haircut will be your last. And don't think I can't make it happen, bubba. I have connections in salons and barber shops from here to the California coast. Cross me and there'll be no place for you to hide! Sooner or later, you'll need a haircut, and when you do..."

Her words trailed off in an evil sounding laugh, accompanied by her drawing the business end of a comb across my throat.

I quickly began to assure her that I'd fallen asleep and hadn't heard a thing she had said, and further that if I had heard anything, which I hadn't, then it obviously fell under stylist/client privilege, and even further, that even if it wasn't privileged, which it was, and if I had heard something, which I hadn't, that I was totally taken by her beauty, grace, charm, and capacity for violence, and I wouldn't think of crossing her.

My sincerity and obvious fear must have convinced her, because she let me go with my remaining eyebrow. If she'd have known about this blog, I don't think I would have made it out of there a whole man. I left a big tip on my way out and have spent the last week, deciding whether or not to share this story with my fellow man. At long last, I decided that this knowledge was too important, that no matter what the personal cost, I had to come forward and share what I know.

So fellows, if you come home to your wife, girlfriend, or significant other, and she seems pissed for no discernible reason, rest assured, she's just coping with the agonizing realization that, once again, you were right.

And if you see me coming down the street with a ragged haircut and only one eyebrow, just realize that cutting my own hair for the rest of my life is a small price to pay for your peace of mind.