Just The Tip

This story is for Brooke, a beautiful beautician who dropped by one evening just to chat. I’m proud to say that she’s also my niece.

Because Brooke is a beautician and I’m a storyteller I told her about the first time I went to a hair salon, back in the early eighties.

I was working at a 7-Eleven and I was being promoted to store manager. I had long hair and a goatee. I was told by my supervisor that, if I wanted to keep those two things, I should have them professionally managed.

My buddy Paul had long black hair and I knew he went to a stylist. I liked how his hair looked so I asked him for advice. He told me where to go.

The stylist was a pretty young woman with long blonde hair. She guided me to her chair, put a cape over my front and tied it around my neck. Then she asked me what I wanted. I had long thin hair that I pulled straight back into a ponytail.

I told her my situation: getting promoted. I told her I didn’t want to lose the length, but maybe she could do something with the front. You know, make it more business like and just trim the goatee.

She went to work. She was bubbly, funny and interested in everything I had to say. If I said something funny she’d throw her head back and laugh.

I thought, this chick really likes me.

She combed, cut and chatted, cheerfully working her way around my head. I had rested my forearms on the arms of her chair. When she got to my right side I felt something touch my elbow.

I could see both her hands up near my head in the mirror. I thought it might have been her hip, but she was facing me. What had touched my elbow was an inch below her zipper.

I thought it was an accident. I thought she’d just bumped me. That it was my fault for putting my elbow on the arm rest. That she would jump back and say, “Hey, I’m workin’ here!”

As a gentleman, I should have pulled my elbow in, saving her the embarrassment of having to point out that my elbow was in her, um . . . ‘space.’

Then she settled her 'space' there. On my elbow. I froze.

My side of the conversation became . . . stilted. My answers, single syllable. Grunts.

I imagined all kinds of reasons why this pretty woman was resting her . . . um, inseam? On my elbow, but I was coming up empty. Did she realize she was doing it?

Then she got to my left side. And, yes ladies, I should have pulled my elbow in but I was twenty years old. My libido was at a simmer all the time. She had brought it to a rapid boil.

When it was time to trim my mustache and goatee she put a hand on my knee, pushed my legs apart and scooched in between them. She leaned in to inspect my goatee, giving me a clear shot of her lace covered lovelies.

I was thankful for that cape.

I really enjoyed getting my hair done by a professional stylist. At the cash register I raved about how great she was. I said I was gonna get my hair cut there for the rest of my life!

The next time I saw my buddy Paul I told him about my experience with the best beautician in the world. Neither of us could believe how flirtatious she had been.

Then Paul told me about his last session at a salon. He said his hair looked so bad that he went to another salon to get it fixed.

“How bad was it?” I asked him.

“It was so bad that I didn’t give her a tip!” he said.

Ahem.

A tip? You’re supposed to give the beautician a tip? Why didn’t he tell me that!?!?

I blushed down to my toes, embarrassed for the dumb ass who raved to the cashier about the best haircut he had ever had.

Paul asked me what was wrong.

“Um,” I said.

“You tipped her, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I didn’t know!” I said. “You should have told me!”

Of course I had told her who’d sent me, so neither of us could go there, ever again.

I wanted to go back and tip her for her hard work, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get over just how stupid I must have looked.

I was scared to go to another salon thinking there would be a WANTED poster of me hanging in the lounge, with the caption, “DOES NOT TIP!”

For a year after that my mom trimmed my hair, until an old girlfriend of mine named Kris came into my store. I hadn’t seen her in a long time and we took a few minutes to catch up. She told me she was a beautician and that she was getting married.

I told Kris a ‘G’ rated version of my first experience with a beautician and we had a big laugh. She told me there were no WANTED posters of non-tippers in her salon.

I squinted at her.

Kris said, “Okay okay, I’ll take down the one with your picture on it.”

So I made an appointment and Kris did a great job cutting my hair. After paying for the haircut, at the cash register, I took a twenty dollar bill out of my wallet and loudly announced, “This is for you, Kris!”

It made me feel great. Until the next time I talked to Paul. This whole tipping business is complicated.