Salon

You enter, lank and harried, searching for refreshment that goes beyond mere water; in need of revitalization.

First, the ritual laying-on of hands. You close your eyes as your head is massaged by strong, trustworthy fingers. The dirt is washed away.

Then the examination of conscience: how long has it been since your last haircut? You think back, you estimate, you fudge some dates, you come up with something that might sound reasonable.

The readings: will it be Cosmo, InStyle, or Us Weekly this time?

Now the sermon: you should really think about trying a Brazilian kerawhatsit treatment, because your hair tends to be a bit fuzzy. And don’t even think about going swimming without some deep conditioner.

The crux of the matter: the cut. Reverent silence as the sacred duty is performed.

Then a little penance for good measure. A blast of hot air scorches; rough bristles pull. Your armpits quickly prickle with sweat and adrenalin. The urge to fight or flight is roused, but you sit and endure and offer it up, head bowed.

Finally, the collection. A tithe? You hardly begrudge it; your very soul feels relieved. As is your wallet.

And you leave: energized, relaxed, light of heart and head.

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