Hair

I don't know his name, but for the space of an hour we were strangely connected. We were sitting in a salon waiting area, as our stylists finished up with other clients. He had shoulder length, dark brown, curly hair. Beautiful hair. It was the kind of hair you just want to run your hands through. "Giving it up for the corporate cause," he commented. I must have look shocked, for I felt shocked. What job could be worth such a sacrifice?

We were seated in chairs adjacent to each other, so I watched the process, as lock by lock his incredible curls fell to the floor. Occasionally, I gave him a smile of commiseration. He smiled bravely back.

I watched him watch himself. He had the sort of face that is very transparent and open, and I could see his emotions move across his countenance. I added meaning to what I was seeing: his hair was part of who he was, and in losing it, he wasn't quite sure who he'd be when he stood up from the chair, payed his bill and walked away. This is a lot to read into a hair cut, but I have seldom seem someone with a more expressive and vulnerable face. He literally wore his inner world on the outside.

It was a beautiful hair cut. I could easily imagine how he'd look when he traded in his blue jeans and t-shirt for a suit. He'd fit. That was the reason for the hair cut, after all. It was a sort of a uniform, or a paying of dues. Here. I'm one of you now. Yes, it was a beautiful hair cut, but I preferred the long curls.

Each time I glanced from my mirror toward his mirror, I could see him staring at his own reflection, as if he was trying to unravel some deep mystery. When he finally stood up, stepping through the piles of dark brown curls around his chair, I saw him cast one more glance over his shoulder at the mirror. The look was a little puzzled, and perhaps sad. I read a bravery there, and saw someone almost holding back tears.

I wanted to stop him and say, "It's okay. I see you. You're still there." He seemed intelligent and aware. I am sure he has figured this out by now, and that the shock has worn off. Instead, I looked into my own mirror, blow dry almost complete. I looked at a face beginning to show signs of aging. "It's okay. I see you. You're still there."

We all need people who really see us after all. "It's okay. I see you. You're still there." I gather my things, pay the bill, and try to remember this way of seeing and the stranger who gifted it to me, as I don my own disguise and walk back into the world.