A teenager was going through some complicated-looking chemical treatment.
At the swank salon, I felt very much like a villager on his first visit to the city. I took in the beautifully-lit ambience of the mini-cafetaria, the reception area and the salon beyond. Not everyone was as wide-eyed as I, however. It seemed like a place to fraternise as much as to get your hair and nails done, with a tattoo on the side. I thought of my earlier hair-dresser’s no-frills shop; sadly, its young owner, Rocky had to close down when he could no longer afford the rent.
I had been egged on by my colleague who raved about this fabulous ‘spalon’ (a spa and a salon combined) and had come prepared to shell out a large sum for a simple haircut. The spectacular rate list rivalled the menu of a fine dining restaurant. Glossy panels advertising the spa and the nail bar beckoned to the seriously fashionable.
A staff member in a chic uniform asked me, ‘Your first visit here? Would you like to take a round of our salon while your hairdresser finishes with his earlier client?’ Curious, I accompanied her on a tour of the facilities. I stepped gingerly, steering clear of the plaster of paris lotuses in the artificial pond. Fibreglass sheets underfoot covered some mysterious but expensive looking artwork that formed a recurrent motif throughout the premises.
The teenager in the chair at the opposite end was going through some complicated-looking chemical treatment. Silverfoil sheets, the kind we use to wrap our lunch-time roti-subji in, were layered around her scalp and the smell was enough to put off anyone with a functional nose. Not so for the smartly-turned out young lady who was chatting animatedly over her mobile phone. The phone had a yellow case to match her yellow nails and the effect was startling but not unpleasant. “Got to go, Goldy wants to do the strands next to my ears, so I can’t hold my phone up anymore.” Goldy waited patiently while she signed off and turned her attention to him and his questions.
Another young woman emerged from the bridal salon to my left. She was resplendent in a pistachio-green lehnga-choli with a ruby-coloured dupatta trailing to her feet. Her red and ivory bangle set marked her out as a new bride, perhaps one on her way to a post-wedding reception. Her retinue of giggling friends and one girl who could only have been her sister, posed excitedly for the photographer. Men and women of all ages were being pampered, tress-wise or skin-wise. The atmosphere was fun-filled and light-hearted. But a closer look revealed the extreme concentration on the face of the twenty-something hair-stylist or the attentive ministrations of the manicurist.
“This way, Ma’am”, the cheerful voice led me to the shampoo alcove. When my hairdresser arrived, I asked him how many clients he had styled that day. Flexing his neck tiredly, he smiled. “Wedding season, Ma’am, it is a 15- hour day, no time to count!”