There's something about a small-town beauty shop. I've been going to big-city salons for years, in my never-ending efforts to tame my wild and woolly hair. In Los Angeles, if there's gossip or news going around the shop, it's usually about a celebrity. Or if the topic of discussion happens to involve regular folks, there's almost zero chance that you actually know them. So it's sort of exhilarating when you've got your head stuck in a sink and you hear, "So-and-so got a new refrigerator" or "So-and-so went camping last weekend" and you actually know who the so-and-sos are!
The gossip isn't particularly scandalous, but it's still an interesting reminder of how much we've integrated into this new environment. If I don't know someone, it's usually clarified with "Oh, you know, she's so-and-so's friend" or "You met him at so-and-so's birthday party." The degrees of separation here are much closer together. It also makes me wonder what's being said once I leave. "Chance got his first gray hair and freaked out right here in this chair. He made me yank it out. Oh, you know Chance. Michael's boyfriend. The quiet one."
It's true. Just as I was starting to feel that I had purchased and applied enough anti-aging products to send me back to infancy, my stylist found a gray hair. She pointed it out, and I said:
"No, that's blonde."
"But you're not blonde."
"Sometimes I'm blonde."
"It's almost white."
That's when I fell apart and made her yank it out. It was more white than gray, which gives me some hope of being a dashing silver-haired dandy, rather than the creepy old guy down the street with all the action figures. Honestly, I've never shied away from pouring chemicals on my head, so I'm not about to go gray without a fight.
Then the small-town gossip and big-city gossip will meet. "Chance is still dyeing his hair? Even William Shatner finally gave up that fight."