Dream: Because It Makes Us Faster
Wednesday, June 18th:
musicin68 told us excitedly that she'd picked up a part-time job as a hairdresser at a trendy salon in the downtown mall. "It'll really help with my expenses," she said, "if I can just get enough hours." She sat sideways in her chair at beltramgregor's dining-room table, framed under the sloping ceiling of their Summit Avenue apartment, all rufus curls and beaming smiles.
The bright sky of an early summer evening cast its lazy, cloudless eye upon me as I walked downtown. I had to cross a large open space that was usually empty, but over the past several weeks a few dozen workers had covered it with stacks of obscure machinery and ranks of hanging pipes, the set for an independent scifi movie about a post-industrial dystopia. Painters and engineers scurried along catwalks as I passed below, and someone called instructions to a motley group that kept changing directions. I was halfway across before I realized they were filming, so I changed course to keep myself off-camera. Several actors with guns raced and crouched with tactical urgency on the other side of a fence of industrial bits (which, come to think of it, looked a lot like these). Detonating squibs splashed the dirty white sand around them to simulate a near miss by an off-screen attacker. An actor dropped to one knee and returned fire with a burst of blanks from his rifle.
The mall turned out to be a large, four-story building of pale stone, like an old courthouse without the ornamentation. I climbed the stairs to the first floor and went inside. The offices of some sort of delivery or distributorship occupied most of the second floor, and the few people still at work ignored me as they bustled to ensure that a stack of whatsits got to Vancouver on time. When I reached the stairs to the third floor, though, they flagged me down and warned me that I'd need a visitor's pass because the mall had closed. I half-heartedly explained that I wouldn't need one because I'd come in earlier and climbed the steps to the third floor.
I found the salon along one side of the main hallway, but I had to wander through a gallery of strange ornaments before I found the hairdressers. musicin68 stood at the chair in front; a handsome fellow in a black shirt stood at the second chair. I recognized the name on the back door as the Wolfgang Puck of hair stylists; clients willing to pay hundreds of dollars for a haircut made their appointments with the man himself in the back room. On occasion, he emerged to watch his employees at work, dispensing valuable stylistic advice.
While musicin68 finished with her customer, I waited at the edge of the gallery. I felt very relaxed but dopey, like I hadn't slept in almost two days... or maybe I was drunk. The gallery displayed one of the salon's lines of cosmetic accents, small shapes of gold foil that were meant to be adhered to the arms or face. I didn't realize what they were, though, or even that they were a product for sale. The entire lineseveral hundred unique shapeshad been glued to the ceiling above the salon archway in a fanciful swoosh. I mistook them for some of the gallery's ostentatious decor and took an immediate disliking to them. Without considering that it might be rude, and without even realizing that I was much to short to reach them, I swept my palm and forearm across the ceiling, clearing away the objectionable spangles in a glittering cloud. musicin68 looked mortified and then extremely nervous when she realized what I was doing, but her boss didn't notice before he returned to his room in back.
I walked over to musicin68's empty chair and exchanged a smile for her enthusiastic hello. I glanced around and nodded, complimenting her on landing the job.
"So, what do you make on a haircut?" I asked.
She scowled self-consciously, glancing away, and I realized this might not be an appropriate question, especially if the other hairdresser was paid at a different rate.
"Not you," I amended, "I mean the shop. How much for you to cut my hair?"
Relieved, musicin68 told me a number between 40 and 70. I nodded, then turned and sat in her chair.
"Sounds good," I lied with a smile. I never pay that much for a haircut, but I wasn't going to miss the chance to encourage her new vocation with my patronage. I relaxed as she began to cut, too tired or too tipsy to do more than mumble in response to her small talk.
When she finished, I felt lighter and breezier. I paid and waited while musicin68 closed up shop, then walked her home. As we crossed the deserted movie set, I asked her how much she was paid. She said it worked out to about eight dollars an hour, or ten if she could finish a haircut in 20 minutes. She tried not to frown, but I could tell she was disappointed with the job.
We ran into beltramgregor (who, it turned out, had been her previous customer) and then Alyssa shortly thereafter. Alyssa looked between beltramgregor and I, trying to disguise her mild shock.
"It's... shorter," she observed.
musicin68 gestured at me and ruffled beltramgregor's hair while she explained that it would make us much faster during the summer. I reminded my wife that I hadn't yet trimmed my beard to match.
Alyssa declared, "I like it."
musicin68 told us excitedly that she'd picked up a part-time job as a hairdresser at a trendy salon in the downtown mall. "It'll really help with my expenses," she said, "if I can just get enough hours." She sat sideways in her chair at beltramgregor's dining-room table, framed under the sloping ceiling of their Summit Avenue apartment, all rufus curls and beaming smiles.
The bright sky of an early summer evening cast its lazy, cloudless eye upon me as I walked downtown. I had to cross a large open space that was usually empty, but over the past several weeks a few dozen workers had covered it with stacks of obscure machinery and ranks of hanging pipes, the set for an independent scifi movie about a post-industrial dystopia. Painters and engineers scurried along catwalks as I passed below, and someone called instructions to a motley group that kept changing directions. I was halfway across before I realized they were filming, so I changed course to keep myself off-camera. Several actors with guns raced and crouched with tactical urgency on the other side of a fence of industrial bits (which, come to think of it, looked a lot like these). Detonating squibs splashed the dirty white sand around them to simulate a near miss by an off-screen attacker. An actor dropped to one knee and returned fire with a burst of blanks from his rifle.
The mall turned out to be a large, four-story building of pale stone, like an old courthouse without the ornamentation. I climbed the stairs to the first floor and went inside. The offices of some sort of delivery or distributorship occupied most of the second floor, and the few people still at work ignored me as they bustled to ensure that a stack of whatsits got to Vancouver on time. When I reached the stairs to the third floor, though, they flagged me down and warned me that I'd need a visitor's pass because the mall had closed. I half-heartedly explained that I wouldn't need one because I'd come in earlier and climbed the steps to the third floor.
I found the salon along one side of the main hallway, but I had to wander through a gallery of strange ornaments before I found the hairdressers. musicin68 stood at the chair in front; a handsome fellow in a black shirt stood at the second chair. I recognized the name on the back door as the Wolfgang Puck of hair stylists; clients willing to pay hundreds of dollars for a haircut made their appointments with the man himself in the back room. On occasion, he emerged to watch his employees at work, dispensing valuable stylistic advice.
While musicin68 finished with her customer, I waited at the edge of the gallery. I felt very relaxed but dopey, like I hadn't slept in almost two days... or maybe I was drunk. The gallery displayed one of the salon's lines of cosmetic accents, small shapes of gold foil that were meant to be adhered to the arms or face. I didn't realize what they were, though, or even that they were a product for sale. The entire lineseveral hundred unique shapeshad been glued to the ceiling above the salon archway in a fanciful swoosh. I mistook them for some of the gallery's ostentatious decor and took an immediate disliking to them. Without considering that it might be rude, and without even realizing that I was much to short to reach them, I swept my palm and forearm across the ceiling, clearing away the objectionable spangles in a glittering cloud. musicin68 looked mortified and then extremely nervous when she realized what I was doing, but her boss didn't notice before he returned to his room in back.
I walked over to musicin68's empty chair and exchanged a smile for her enthusiastic hello. I glanced around and nodded, complimenting her on landing the job.
"So, what do you make on a haircut?" I asked.
She scowled self-consciously, glancing away, and I realized this might not be an appropriate question, especially if the other hairdresser was paid at a different rate.
"Not you," I amended, "I mean the shop. How much for you to cut my hair?"
Relieved, musicin68 told me a number between 40 and 70. I nodded, then turned and sat in her chair.
"Sounds good," I lied with a smile. I never pay that much for a haircut, but I wasn't going to miss the chance to encourage her new vocation with my patronage. I relaxed as she began to cut, too tired or too tipsy to do more than mumble in response to her small talk.
When she finished, I felt lighter and breezier. I paid and waited while musicin68 closed up shop, then walked her home. As we crossed the deserted movie set, I asked her how much she was paid. She said it worked out to about eight dollars an hour, or ten if she could finish a haircut in 20 minutes. She tried not to frown, but I could tell she was disappointed with the job.
We ran into beltramgregor (who, it turned out, had been her previous customer) and then Alyssa shortly thereafter. Alyssa looked between beltramgregor and I, trying to disguise her mild shock.
"It's... shorter," she observed.
musicin68 gestured at me and ruffled beltramgregor's hair while she explained that it would make us much faster during the summer. I reminded my wife that I hadn't yet trimmed my beard to match.
Alyssa declared, "I like it."