I came to the conclusion a while ago that my appearance matters a bit to me (who am I kidding, it always mattered). Let me say, it mattered enough to justify paying for a trip to the salon every six weeks and I continue to go to get my hair done. Or, as I call it, the beauty parlor. I know that no one calls salons beauty parlors any more and I am a bit of history geek for continuing to call them this. I like it the way it sounds and the connotation this label gives about what goes on in them.
When I was a child, my grandmothers went to the beauty parlor and had their hair done. When they were no longer able to go to the beauty parlor, their hair dressers came to them to set their hair for the week. I was always fascinated by this process and the culture of the beauty parlor. My mother took me (and my sister) to her hair dresser when it came time for us to have hair cuts. I remember it was a bewildering place with strange smells (a weird mixture of cigarette smoke, hair spray, fake nail chemicals, and whatever goes into perms). It was definitely a female environment. I do not remember any male clients and there were not any male hair dressers. Women talked about their lives, complained about their husbands, and bragged about their children. Women gossiped and I remember my mother talking in a light, chatty manner, that gave few details, but was not unfriendly or evasive. (We were schooled at a very early age that we did not talk about our business with others, nor did we gossip.)
I was a bit of tomboy as a child and I really had an aversion to all things pink. I was painfully shy and did not engage in conversation well (nor do I now, even though I have overcome the painful part of shyness.) I did not get this beauty parlor world. There were all sorts of magazines with hair styles, both imaginable and strange. Then there were the fashion magazine, like Vogue. Those magazines were so foreign and the women in the pictures were so unlike who I was or could ever be. But, we move on from there, we learn to accept who we are for our good points. Fine. Super. Moving on.
On my last visit to the beauty parlor, I forgot to bring a book. (I always bring a book with me to whatever kind of appointment I have. One never knows when one will have to wait. Books always come in handy. ) Consequently, my only reading material were magazines. I started with Lady's Home Journal or something like that, and then with nothing else nearby, I picked up a Vogue. It had been a while and I was not sorry for that time. This magazine which touts itself as an authority on beauty and fashion puts forward an image of woman that disturb me. Now, the waifish, pouty model with vacant-staring eyes was not invented yesterday, and I was not surprised to see some of it. Heck I came of age when all the models looked like they were on heroin. As I was reading this magazine, I started wondering why all the women looked like they had been beaten, or assaulted in some way? Why did they all stand with their feet turned in and knees slightly bent? Who finds this attractive? Do heterosexual men read this magazine and this is what they want? Why were images of haunted women in next to nothing or thoroughly unpractical and unattractive clothing followed by short stories of heroic women volunteering in places like Africa? My favorite was the extensive article critiquing the fashion industry's obsession with ultra thin models, which was followed by advertisements with images of terribly thin women. Despite knowing that this is not real and those images have no bearing on my life, I do could not shake a negative feeling.
How has the understanding of beauty changed over the last twenty to thirty years? How has the beauty parlor changed? There are still a lot of women there, although men show up too. (We thank the invention of the unisex salon for that.) Women still chat about their lives and gossip. There are still magazines with hair styles. I still feel somewhat out of step with this culture. And it is a culture with language, ritual, and maybe a secret handshake. Definitely the products are neat. And when I leave the establishment, I feel better about myself. The trick is to figure out what it is that makes me feel better, and carry that through the weeks.
When I was a child, my grandmothers went to the beauty parlor and had their hair done. When they were no longer able to go to the beauty parlor, their hair dressers came to them to set their hair for the week. I was always fascinated by this process and the culture of the beauty parlor. My mother took me (and my sister) to her hair dresser when it came time for us to have hair cuts. I remember it was a bewildering place with strange smells (a weird mixture of cigarette smoke, hair spray, fake nail chemicals, and whatever goes into perms). It was definitely a female environment. I do not remember any male clients and there were not any male hair dressers. Women talked about their lives, complained about their husbands, and bragged about their children. Women gossiped and I remember my mother talking in a light, chatty manner, that gave few details, but was not unfriendly or evasive. (We were schooled at a very early age that we did not talk about our business with others, nor did we gossip.)
I was a bit of tomboy as a child and I really had an aversion to all things pink. I was painfully shy and did not engage in conversation well (nor do I now, even though I have overcome the painful part of shyness.) I did not get this beauty parlor world. There were all sorts of magazines with hair styles, both imaginable and strange. Then there were the fashion magazine, like Vogue. Those magazines were so foreign and the women in the pictures were so unlike who I was or could ever be. But, we move on from there, we learn to accept who we are for our good points. Fine. Super. Moving on.
On my last visit to the beauty parlor, I forgot to bring a book. (I always bring a book with me to whatever kind of appointment I have. One never knows when one will have to wait. Books always come in handy. ) Consequently, my only reading material were magazines. I started with Lady's Home Journal or something like that, and then with nothing else nearby, I picked up a Vogue. It had been a while and I was not sorry for that time. This magazine which touts itself as an authority on beauty and fashion puts forward an image of woman that disturb me. Now, the waifish, pouty model with vacant-staring eyes was not invented yesterday, and I was not surprised to see some of it. Heck I came of age when all the models looked like they were on heroin. As I was reading this magazine, I started wondering why all the women looked like they had been beaten, or assaulted in some way? Why did they all stand with their feet turned in and knees slightly bent? Who finds this attractive? Do heterosexual men read this magazine and this is what they want? Why were images of haunted women in next to nothing or thoroughly unpractical and unattractive clothing followed by short stories of heroic women volunteering in places like Africa? My favorite was the extensive article critiquing the fashion industry's obsession with ultra thin models, which was followed by advertisements with images of terribly thin women. Despite knowing that this is not real and those images have no bearing on my life, I do could not shake a negative feeling.
How has the understanding of beauty changed over the last twenty to thirty years? How has the beauty parlor changed? There are still a lot of women there, although men show up too. (We thank the invention of the unisex salon for that.) Women still chat about their lives and gossip. There are still magazines with hair styles. I still feel somewhat out of step with this culture. And it is a culture with language, ritual, and maybe a secret handshake. Definitely the products are neat. And when I leave the establishment, I feel better about myself. The trick is to figure out what it is that makes me feel better, and carry that through the weeks.
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