Out of Style

“See you at 2!” reads the text from my hair stylist, Brandee. I’m on the run and notice there is additional wording but I know she’s just telling me how she’s looking forward to seeing me.

 I always look forward to seeing Brandee. We update each other on family news and any gossip we deem interesting. Some gossip about a mutual friend begs to be shared.

 Dashing into the salon, I am out of breath from errands and phone calls. The other stylists turn to watch as I glance around for Brandee. She must be in the back.

 “Can I help you?” one asks.

 “I’m here for my appointment with Brandee.”

 The stylist starts to say something else, but I stride past her and into the changing room to don a cape for my color and cut session. The

gray highway running down my scalp has become a sixteen-lane interstate. One of these days I might let my hair revert to its natural color but today is definitely not that day.

 I plop into Brandee’s chair, causing it to do a half turn. Still no Brandee. She must be mixing my color.

 “Excuse me,” the stylist says.

 “I have an appointment with Brandee at two,” I inform her. I’ve been coming here for years—she’s seen me many times before. She’s one of the older stylists—maybe she’s becoming forgetful.  Poor old thing, I think.

 “Excuse me,” the poor old thing says. “Brandee has moved to another salon.”

I remember the additional wording in her text. I remember Brandee wanting to open her own salon.

 I fling the cape over my shoulder as I attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity on my way to the changing room.

 Poor old thing, I suspect more than one stylist is thinking.