“I looked in the mirror this morning. It was shocking. I am so thankful that I had an appointment today,” said the woman who sat next to me. I smiled, knowing just how she felt.
There were three of us waiting our turns to be refurbished by the wizardry of the salon. New color, more curls, no curls, a veritable feast of options to redeem you and whatever baggage you brought with you. What part was real and what part was belief didn’t really matter.
My salon neighbor continued her observations. “I feel comfortable here. I know what to expect. I know the stylists. I know that I will certainly look more presentable when I leave. It’s my comfort zone.”
The last statement seemed to touch a few nerves or push buttons, whichever metaphor is appropriate.
The stylist closest to me smiled.
“We aim to please. But gee, it’s more and more difficult to find a comfort zone any more. It’s like a verbal minefield … I mean, you don’t know what to say, what word to use … you can, with the most innocent comment, be insulting or challenging someone’s feelings. Everyone is, so touchy, entitled.”
“Entitled is a good word.” My waiting area neighbor continued. “I was copying a recipe for pea soup the other day that required a ham bone and I casually said something about how fantastic the soup will taste because of the ham bone. Well, you’d think I had advocated torturing kittens. My daughter’s friend sitting across the counter launched into a diatribe about cruelty to animals and eating something with a face. I really didn’t know what to say. So, I asked her if she was a vegetarian. She spit out her answer: vegan, and then walked out of the room.”
“When I told my daughter later, she said that I have to be more sensitive. What sensitive is she talking about? I was in my own kitchen, cooking my own food. Do I have to question everyone about their preferences, their likes and dislikes, their politics, their point of view about religion, energy sources? No one seems to be more sensitive about my preferences.”
Now she was on a tear… “Like the bottom feeder who has a sign in his yard that describes our president with a word that I have never used and if I did, well ….”
“Does it start with an F?” laughed the other customer in the waiting room.
“Yes … and I am offended. There is right and there is wrong. That word on a flag in his yard is wrong.” She seemed to stop to think … “I have developed a whole negative picture about this guy now.”
A gal who had just emerged from the changing room, chimed in, “You just don’t know what sensibilities are floating near the surface. Almost anything can be interpreted to be insulting. I told one of my coworkers that her dress was very nice. She jumped all over me, telling me that I was patronizing her because she is – and this was her word – fat. And who is brave enough to discuss whether to get the Covid vaccine or wear a mask? You need to go carefully into those waters.”
The stylist added that her uncle no longer speaks to her father because her Dad said something positive about a Congresswoman that her uncle disliked. “Like oil and water”.
I tried to get a word in among all of the mounting verbiage. A cascade of negativity had set in. Who didn’t patronize what business because of their politics, what car wash is owned by an anti-vaxxer, on and on.
The sweet, safe comfort zone was disappearing and my hair was a disaster. I needed my once a month hour and a half comfort back.
I felt that I had to speak up. The “know-it-all” in me with the ratty coiffure had to try to change the conversation.
I pontificated, “You know, change is one of those concepts that becomes so hard to live with when it is so fast. And the pandemic has made everything so much more difficult.” That seemed true enough if overused as an excuse or explanation of behavior that needs excusing or explanation.
I took a breath and forged on. I had the floor and despite the fact that my observation had little to do with insensitivity, I continued, “Have you noticed that when you use your oven, the normal temperature is so much higher than what was considered normal say 20 years ago? I have my “Joy of Cooking” cookbook, my go-to cooking Bible, and I checked this the other day. Most recipes for anything that required using the oven told you to set your temperature at 350 degrees. In fact when I turn my oven on, that is its base setting, but, now-a-days, 400 or 425 is the most often described temperature, even 450 or 500 degrees. I don’t think my oven could last at 500 degrees.”
That non-sequitur seemed to stop the catty accusations and descriptions of the cancel culture.
And it didn’t seem to offend anyone. The conversation then happily changed to locations where you could buy the good Italian Christmas cookies.
I mumbled to myself that I was still having trouble remembering that mailman wasn’t appropriate and that I should use the term letter carrier, not all that germane but deserving a small mention.
