The Price of Beauty

No matter how low I sink into the stuffed plastic chair, it reclines no further. It forces me to contort my body unnaturally just so I can get the right angle. Man, it’s cold. Thank goodness I had the foresight to wear boots. I move them restlessly on the iron bar. I only wish I had been as wise in my food selection before I left my house this morning. I stare at the steadily dwindling size of my Snickers bar and take another long drink of water. I refuse to buy the overpriced snacks wrapped in cellophane on the thin blue carpet floor.

It’s now been four hours; the normal time when I start getting antsy. I stare again at the movements flickering on the screen. The movies offer some comfort although they are so predictable. Even the ones in French, I can follow. It must be my mind succumbing to lethargy when I come to these places because I actually enjoy the stories, the bad acting, even the predictability. But this time is different. The woman is slow and the room is cold. I glance around at the shiny posters taped to the bare, white walls. Some have rips in them but the room is overall neat. Along the wall of windows is a weathered couch, sunken in the middle from all the big bottoms waiting their turn. I sigh and stare at the sun shining on a cloudless, winter day. The sun doesn’t reach my chair. I touch my hair to see how much further there is to go. What a way to spend a Saturday.

My body has gotten used to the rhythm of hands pleating in my hair. A jerk brings me back to my senses. I glance at the woman who has a round face, kind and firm. Her eyes break their concentration to give me a brief smile. We are beyond the point of chit-chat so we go back to work: her braiding, me staying in position.

Hour 6: the pressure is gone, a mirror is presented, and a smile is exchanged with money. Oh, the price of beauty.