The Hair Salon

The first place I lived in New York City was in the back of a hair salon on 45th and 8th. People think I’m joking when I say this, but that’s what it was.

When you opened the door — after you were slapped in the face by the by the lingering chemical smell of hair products — there was one of those big black spinning chairs. It faced a large light-up mirror, which hovered over an Ikea-esque vanity thing. The vanity’s various cubbies and drawers overflowed with styling tools, products, and make-up. Against the wall was one of those old hair dryer chairs with an astronaut bubble top. The kind little old ladies sit under as they flip through gossip magazines.

The hair salon’s owner was a middle-aged woman (with a head of shaggy bottle-blond hair that did not inspire confidence) who lived with her young daughter somewhere in the suburbs. She’d sublet the apartment to actors to hold onto the prime location as a private studio for her Manhattan clients. It was a great deal, $500 a month for an apartment in Midtown. As long as you didn’t mind finding somewhere else to be during the day while strangers got blow-outs, or had their roots touched-up in your living room.

An actress friend of mine from Shakespeare & Company lived in the hair salon year-round but landed a summer stock gig in New Hampshire. So, I arranged for myself and my best friend, Kristen, to sublet her sublet over the summer. We had three months to make a go of it as actresses in New York City and make all of our dreams come true. Doin’ it our way.

When my plane landed at JFK on June 1st, 2000, it was almost midnight. I’d celebrated my 23rd birthday by going out of the country for the first time. Now, I was kicking-off what I called my sophomore year of life by moving to New York City. I had no job prospects, $2000, and at the end of the summer Kristen and I would be homeless. No pressure.

By the time I got my bag, the international terminal was desolate. I was an easy mark for the gypsy cab driver that I stupidly said “Yes” to when he asked, “Manhattan?”

I learned many things from that $65 car ride (back in 2000…) to the hair salon. The first was — always find the taxi stand at the airport.

Out of exhaustion and ignorance, I got in the front seat. The driver didn’t bat an eye when I piled in next to him as if he was an old chum picking me up from the airport. Instead, as we pulled away, he nonchalantly handed me a Discman he’d bought off the street that day.

“Show me how to work this thing? There’s no manual,” he said.

For those of you who don’t know what a Discman is? There was a window of time between mixed tapes and iPods when you’d put a CD in a Walkman-like device and then try to walk, or jog, very smoothly so it wouldn’t skip. I fiddled with the cheap piece of plastic, showing him how to work the various features while also encouraging him to please keep his eyes on the road. In turn, he taught me everything I needed to know about living in the city.

“5th Avenue. That divides the city,” he told me. It was so dark in the car all I could make out was his shiny black mustache bobbing up and down as he talked,

“Look up, when you see the Empire State Building that is 34th and 5th. Walk up, 34th, 35th, 36th, and the East side is to your right. West to your left.”

I have a horrible sense of direction, so this $65 handy tip saved my ass for months. Let’s face it, years. Then he warned me,

“Never, ever eat from a street vendor. They are not allowed to go on break, so they piss right in the hot dog water.”

I’ve never eaten a hotdog from a street vendor. Mostly, because I rarely eat red meat but this late night “piss theory” didn’t help. After I had shown him how to skip tracks on the Discman, he rewarded me with this piece of advice.

“If you want to be an actress in New York City, this is what you must do. Get yourself in a Broadway show.”

“I will work on that,” I replied.

“Yes, that is very important,” he said, “You must be in a Broadway show. Then you will be all set.”

With those final words, he dropped me off on the corner of 45th and 8th. Leaving me standing underneath the red awning of the Camelot building with one suitcase and $1935 left to my name.

Standing in the small dark hallway that always smelled like soup, I fumbled with the keys, figuring out the hair salon’s various locks. Opening the door, I pushed my suitcase through the narrow entrance and was disappointed to find a dark apartment. Kristen wasn’t there. We’d been college roommates in Orlando, sharing an apartment about midway between campus and the theme parks where we worked.

Kristen getting “killed” daily at both the Terminator 2 3-D and Psycho attractions at Universal Studios, while I drove my tram and got shot at by an Audio-Animatronic Sheriff as a Great Movie Ride Tour Guide/Cowgirl at Disney’s MGM Studios. When we planned to move back in together, I was ecstatic to take on New York City with her by my side. Laverne & Shirley were being reunited. Except, where was Shirley?

Delirious from travel, I didn’t bother turning on the lights as the permanent glow from Times Square, which was one avenue over, gave the room a neon sheen. I walked to the window and peered out at the city. Despite the late hour, people still swarmed down 8th avenue. On the rooftop across the way, a large piece of machinery worked to rotate the cars from the parking garage below. Constantly shuffling them to make room.

I stood there, in the hair salon, watching the cars move up and down because there was nothing else to do. I’d imagined this moment for so long. Now that it was here, it was so quiet. As if nothing had happened at all.

Tomorrow, “next” would begin. My new life, in my new home. At least for the three months until we found a permanent place of our own. How were we going to do that? Or the rest? I didn’t have a clue. I made a note to tell Kristen (whenever she got here) to,

“Make sure you get cast in a Broadway show. Then you will be all set.”

With her incredible singing voice, this could actually happen.

Not knowing when Kristen, or any random stranger who needed a haircut, might show up in the morning, I dragged my suitcase into the small bedroom area in the back. Pulling the floral sheet that separated it from the rest of the apartment, I collapsed on the bed and slept in my clothes.

After that night, panic would always smell of perm.

In honor of moving to NYC 15 years ago this week, this is an excerpt from a collection of linked personal essays I am developing.