Why I’ll Never Complain In The Salon Chair Again
One woman’s journey of resilience
These days, when darkness tries to mute my spirit, I find inspiration in unlikely places. Last week, I found it in a salon chair — not for obvious reasons. I’ve been going to my beautician for over 20 years. She’s not only my beautician, she’s a friend — a confidant. She’s one of the most generous people I know. Her kindness strengthens my faith in humanity. Talent aside.
Over the years, she’s done my hair for free on special occasions and always makes herself available when I call for a same day appointment. If she has information she thinks will help, she will give reference. I always leave her shop looking fly and feeling more hopeful about something. It could be as small as an insightful Netflix movie or as big as a contractor to renovate my master bathroom. I trust her.
Two years ago, when she sold her salon and thought she was quitting the business for good, she opened her home to do my hair. Her chair represents freedom to me — a moment of pause from the wickedness in the world. We’ve shared so much laughter retelling family stories. Some hilarious, others not so much. Armchair therapy for us both.
Her kindness doesn’t stop there; she collects food and clothing for the less fortunate, restores dignity to a homeless man that lives in the garbage shed near her shop by giving him minor jobs to earn money. She’s his guardian angel. Her annual toy drive for children in her salon during the holidays resembles the North Pole — if you believe in Santa Claus. If a stranger comes up short in the grocery store line, she pays for their food too.
I wish I had half her energy. She’s the Duracell bunny personified. On top of all that, she’s funny as hell — could have been a comedian. On the day of my appointment in February before the country shut down, I couldn’t prepare for what came next.
I entered her salon as usual and sat down in the waiting room chair. The light streaming through the window behind her cast a gloomy shadow. “I have something to tell you,” she said. I’d never seen her so serious — I didn’t know what to expect.
“I have breast cancer,” she said.
The admission retracted my breath, turned it into an audible gasp. “I’m so sorry,” I said. Feeling guilty about the last time I was in her chair complaining about my inability to find a suitable caregiver for my mom. I wanted to hug her. Hearing of her diagnosis shrunk my problems down to mere inconveniences.
The first piece of advice I could muster was to get a second opinion. “Doctors make mistakes too, I reasoned. Maybe it’s just fat,” I said. I wanted to shoot an arrow laced with hope deep into her soul.
“My biopsy results are positive for cancer — I have two aunts who have died of the disease,” she said.
“What do they recommend?” I asked, already knowing the answer, but pacing my reaction.
“First a lumpectomy, followed by chemotherapy. I’m not letting them inject poison into my body. I’m getting a double mastectomy,” she said with staunch conviction. I cringed. She honors her body and thought she did all the right things — daily exercise, proper diet, annual mammograms and no alcohol intake.
Her doctor discovered another lump in her other breast. They removed both masses during surgery. On my next hair appointment, she detailed her options behind a mask. Her doctors disagreed with her proposed choice — said they only need to remove one breast. She was scared.
To save her life and put up a brave front for her 14-year-old daughter, she agreed to four rounds of chemotherapy. Her daughter is every mother’s dream. Beautiful inside and out. Bright, compassionate, sensitive, self-motivated, and strong. Although terrified, she’s probably unaware her mother is gifting her with optimism — a coping mechanism in the face of adversity. One she’ll be able to rely on for the rest of her life.
The outpouring of love from her friends, clients and fellow stylists is humbling. When the pandemic dictated a complete shutdown, she didn’t know how she would keep her business afloat. Rent, electricity and her daughter’s tuition still had a due date. For whatever reason, the government denied her unemployment and the PPE loan. One of her best friends created a GoFundMe account and so far, it’s helping her pay the bills.
When she describes the experience after a round of chemotherapy, I want to cry. I feel stupid for the moments I waste feeling sorry for myself. It takes three weeks to recover her strength. She sleeps for days. Can’t walk. Can’t eat because she has a horrible metal taste in her mouth. Constipation keeps her bloated. The incision on one of her breasts gave her horrific pain. The OxyContin makes her sick — she feels like she will die. Instead of taking pain pills, she opts for CBD. On my last appointment at her home, she was bald.
While I was under the dryer, she brought out three wigs. The one she tried on was shoulder length. It was light brown and ombre pink. She put it on and shook her head back and forth. “I can’t keep this thing on — it slides to the side.” The swishing motion made me chuckle. With her entire face covered, she said, “I look like a fucking Muppet.” I love how she laughs at herself and invites me to do the same.
“I’m so glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“That’s all I have left,” she said.
Barely five feet tall, she’s a mammoth of a woman with a spirit big and bright enough to snuff out cancer. I’m betting on her resilience and full recovery. If anyone has the right attitude to heal — she does. She’s scheduled for her second surgery at the end of September. In the meantime, I bought two wigs I hate to wear so as not to disturb her during recovery periods. Unlike hers, they grip my head like a vice. But I’m not complaining.
