She walked into my salon not long after I had opened the doors for the first time. She had been referred to me by a friend she said. She lived close by and her friend had promised that I could work miracles, if not with her hair, at least she would enjoy the atmosphere.
She was tall but she took short, small steps. Her shoulders drooping as much as her hair. She looked very tired. As with all my clients, I pulled up my cutting stool and sat down so I could have a consultation with her eye to eye. Her eyes didn’t meet mine though. They batted a lot, and looked down a lot but never at me or in the mirror. I notice things like that when I sit and talk with people. She didn’t fidget but she was not comfortable. I gave a good once over and decided she had not had a good day. “What’s on your mind?” I asked. “What?” she looked a bit startled. I re-worded my question. “What would you like for me to able to do for you?” “I’d like you to cut my hair and do something about this wretched color that will make me look and feel 20 years younger but since I don’t really believe in miracles I’ll settle for a trim and some highlights. “ I laughed out loud. I didn’t expect that from this very tired, not too confident lady. I assured her that when she left that day, she would indeed believe in miracles.
We talked a bit more. I asked lots of questions and pulled a few teeth trying to get out of her what I needed to know to give her the miracle she was looking for. She wasn’t much of a talker. More of a grunter. She was a little curious as to why I needed to know what she did for a living, what she liked and didn’t like about her hair, what tools and products she used, what time she got up in the morning etc. At one point she asked if I was going to take notes because I had asked so many questions there was no way I was going to remember all this. “Oh, don’t you worry about that! I remember everything I NEED to remember and I forget everything I should NOT repeat!” At the time, I’m pretty certain she did not believe me.
I worked harder on the consultation than I did on the hair but when we were finished she actually grinned at herself. When she caught me grinning with satisfaction she was a bit embarrassed. She shuffled out the door with the tiniest bit more bounce than when she had come in. As she was leaving, I asked her how she felt about miracles now. She shook my hand and thanked me for being an honest person.
About six weeks later, she was back. Same shuffle, same droopy shoulders. I met her at the door and opened it for her. I asked her about her dog. We had talked just a bit about her dog the last time. She was stunned that I had remembered. She talked a bit more this time. Nothing personal. This time she asked questions. She was my last client of the day, all the rest of the staff had gone home so we were alone. I turned up the classical guitar music I had going, made her some hot herbal tea and told her what I thought was a fairly dreary story about my day.
For nearly five years, this lady came into my salon every 6 weeks. She often tried to come when she could be the last client of the day. She was shy, quiet, and she seemed lonely. She was hesitant to talk about herself but I always managed a smile out of her and every once in a while she would talk of her love for books, music, antiquess and how she had always wanted to learn how to skate. I never really felt like I knew her very well. I knew she was married and had children but she did not speak of them much. Sometimes, she would just read a magazine while I did her hair and I would let her have her silence. Other times, she would almost daydream out loud and then apologize for boring me. I assured her that she was not boring. Every time I asked how the skating was progressing she would chuckle.
On her next to last visit with me, she informed me that her husband had been transferred to St. Louis and without talking to her first had taken the voluntary assignment. They would be selling their home, she would have to give up her job of almost 20 years, and she was devastated. I didn’t say much that evening. I nodded, told her she was not being unreasonable to be sad, and told her I was going to miss her very much. This last comment made her stop. She looked at me for a long moment and said “I believe you will.”
About 5 years after she walked through my door for the first time, my friend walked through my door for the last. I had a gift for her. The book “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein, some travel size products, her color formulas and a little book light so she could read at night. In the card, I gave her my email and cell phone number and told her that if she ever needed a giggle to give me a call. I’d save one for her.
We didn’t talk much again that night. She didn’t read a magazine or stare into her tea cup that evening. She watched me. I told her a couple of funny stories and asked for details about the move, the selling of her house, etc., but mostly, she just watched me in the mirror. When I finished her hair for the last time, I hugged her. I had gotten into the habit of hugging her because she always seemed to need it. Not so much from what she said, but more from what she didn’t say. She was always a bit tense and then she would ease up and almost hug me back.
With more candor and strength than she had ever shown before, these were her last words to me…
“ I am going to miss you very much. You are the only person who is ever glad to see me. The only person who laughs at my jokes, touches me, or asks my opinion about anything. You are my best friend and moving away from you is harder than leaving my job or selling the home I raised my children in.” With that, she hugged me, turned and left… and I sobbed.
I have a unique opportunity in what I do for a living. I have the opportunity to be a good and positive point in the lives of the people who sit in my chair. I have to get in their space to do my job and with that comes a responsibility that I take very seriously. I never went out of my way for this client. I treated her the same way I treat all my clients. I didn’t know she was unhappy. I thought she was a bit shy, a bit withdrawn but I didn’t suspect mistreated or unloved. I am grateful that I was a bit of light in her otherwise dark world. And I wish I had expressed to her much more fervently and before it was too late, her many good qualities. While I wish I had done more, I know I had done enough.
She hugged me back.
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