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March of the Wiglets

Cindy Small

    Going to the hair salon weekly was a life-and-death event for my mother, grandmother and me. It was as important as penguins crossing the Antarctic. This vexing journey every Saturday morning became the foundation for us to re-enter the world in an optimistic and beautiful way. Grandmother’s X-rated lingerie shop was closed for a few hours each Saturday morning and a stone’s throw from the Roosevelt Hotel House of Beauty in New Orleans. At 8a.m., we huddled together walking down University Place, clutching flower-patterned wig boxes. We were on our way to see Mr. Steve. It was a cyclical event, almost a spiritual pilgrimage that I was involved with since I was old enough to feed myself. My mother always said that you need three things in life: a good hair stylist, a good mechanic, and a good accountant-in that order.
    Cindy SmallLike walking on pillows, the carpet cushioned our feet entering The House of Beauty. A hedonistic space filled with beehives and Dusty Springfield look-a-likes. Silhouettes of hairdressers were racing everywhere. Red vintage plastic beauty salon chairs clashed with blue painted ceiling clouds. Franki Valli wailed “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” My mother and grandmother covered their unmentionables (long line girdles) with a black smock as Mr. Steve waited to morph them into continental chic. We would line up seated in chairs, wiglets on our laps, military style. My grandmother had the platinum bouffant wiglet, my mother, the Eva Gabor auburn wiglet, and I had mounds of brown Magic Collection rolling wiglets. This scene alone sent shivers up the spine of Mr. Steve. He knew he was going to work hard for his pay. Very unpredictable, depending on the night he had before; Mr. Steve was a sexually-repressed, mentally-unbalanced salon worker who had an abnormal fear of women. But he was an institution. His clients were the old guard New Orleans debutantes, the nouveau riche and those loyal to him despite his “slap bitch” attitude. Mr. Steve was very popular as he created perfectly formed hair helmets. Wiglets meant bigger, better and more. He called wiglets transformations, and treated them as a saintly experience while shoving pins into our scalp. Hurricane- force winds would not move our wiglets. This creator of beauty himself, Mr. Steve, wore a Betty Davis wig, had a huge belly hanging over velvet pants, a very tight madras polyester shirt and a dab of Twinkie cream hanging from his corner lip.
    The beauty salon machinery was similar to a torture chamber. Cone-head hairdryers were large, metal and so, so hot. Always overheating, my ears turned blood red. At times, I thought my face had sizzled like bacon and fell to the ground. As the dryer tried to suck my brains out of my head, this behemoth machine belched fumes. A little carbon monoxide, anyone? The permanent wave machine is also a fond memory. It was a huge hose that hung down from the ceiling and attached to the customer?s head. Electrocuted yet? No, just making pretty. Vile odors of nail lacquer and hair spray were also infused into the air. Chronic lung disease? Beauty first.
    This day of beauty reminds us that nothing brings us closer to God than Aqua Net. Without super hold Aqua Net, there is no day of beauty. Any style and any height can be perfected into a sculpture. Of course, 3 shampoos are required each week to remove the glue-like substance. But what is more important than a skyscraper on your head? It takes time to spray and time equals bigger hair. If your hair moves, that’s a titanic problem. Coating the hair with Aqua Net takes an extraordinary delicate series of maneuvers. Close your eyes, hold your breath and spray. Repeat 7 times until the air is toxic enough to choke a large city. Your hair should now feel like a tin roof. That’s a sign of achievement.
    The gold square wall clock hit noon. We have been scalded, pulled, overheated, colored, burned and molded into place. It’s been a Beauty and Beast morning. The women in my family always have to bear the heavy burden of glamour. Reality is thrown to the wind. We left the salon expecting to walk out looking gorgeous, irrespective and unacknowledging of any drawbacks. Big hair makes us ready to face the world. The world of hair makes us confident, happy and ready to rip off the balls of anyone who dare cross our paths. Like a penguin protects its egg long enough before it hatches, our wiglets receive the same attention and love. We can now overcome any daunting obstacles life throws our way due to our day of beauty. Back to the lingerie shop we go, knowing we look incredibly fabulous. It’s at this point, we are on our best behavior. Even I don’t mind extending myself and waiting on some of those dirty old businessmen. If I really didn’t like them, they would end up in the hotel room with only one titty pasty and that could be disastrous. So, it was best to catch me at my best and be nice. It’s nice to be nice to the nice.



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