We bid adieu to Eilat and drove the 4 hours to Tel Aviv. In the middle of the Negev Desert, I saw what appeared to be a cannon firing from a sand dune. I called out to Avi, attempting to sound calm but certain that Jordan had launched an attack on Israel, and asked him (in Hebrew so the others would not understand nor be alarmed) what was happening. Avi smiled and stopping briefly by the side of the desert road to point out the Israeli tanks engaged in maneuvers and target practice. Watching the fiery artillery blast from the tank gun at close range made the sun bleached hairs on my arm stand up. Giant sand puffs resembling small tornados were created in the distance as the targets (older tanks) were hit, and no one but the passengers in our black Mercedes van seemed to find this spectacle the least bit unusual or impressive. I did notice signs at the road side saying in Hebrew “Warning Shooting Zone”, but perhaps “Warning Massive Army Tanks Firing Live Artillery, FEAR FOR YOUR LIFE AND CARRY ON WITH CARE,” would have been more appropriate.
We were in a race against time to make it to Tel Aviv by 2pm as my mother and I desperately needed to visit the hair stylist. My mother had a party to attend that evening, and as for me, well let’s just say no amount of Israeli sunshine can fully maintain my otherwise “natural looking” hair roots. Avi’s wife, Anat, had kindly booked us appointments at her former stylist’s salon. She warned us that Reuven had become rather religious but assured us that he was excellent. We made it to the hotel, checked in to our upgraded suite at the Dan Hotel (complimentary upgrade thank you very much) where we had to stay as the Macabbia Games (think Jewish Olympics) were in town and our beloved Hilton was not accepting bookings of less than 5 nights.
After a quick bite at a nearby café my mother and I walked over to ward the salon. En route we passed numerous modern and sleek looking salons hopeful that the next would be ours. Soon we passed by the smart looking neighborhood and entered an area that was ready for some major gentrification. And so we arrived at the “Beauty Place”, an 8 foot by 15 foot space built out of cement that had been dry walled over some 15-20 years ago with a laminated “wood-looking” floor. We entered somewhat nervously but hopeful that all would be well. There was a Russian bleached platinum blond manicurist (with a weight problem she was oblivious to in tight fitting shiny capris) at a moveable manicure table applying acrylic nails to her elderly client, so the space was rich with acrylic fumes inducing a light head buzz which was not altogether unpleasant despite the stench. I inquired whether this was indeed the place where Reuven worked, ever hopeful that we were at the wrong address, but sadly the Olivia Newton John pant-loving manicurist nodded that indeed Reuven worked here and would return shortly.
She invited us to have a seat and so my mother took a seat on the loveseat scrunched up against the yellowing wall, while I made for the styling chair but did not sit as the seat was covered in platinum blond shorn hair that did not appear to belong to the Russian manicurist whom I chose to think of as Tatyana, nor to have been cut recently. Naturally I looked down at the floor and was faced with a curiosity. Rather than finding a pile or two of similarly colored hair on the floor, what I found were numerous flat streams of hair in all different colors scattered about the floor. The brown and black shaded piles stood out the most from the faux wood laminate floor and so I followed the dark patches on the floor that led to cracks in the walls where they had mated with dust balls forming a unique kind of hair/dust ball mélange and made their home in the wall cracks and crevices that I heretofore had never spied in the wild. Over the years trapped in the salon, the dark patches of hair must have evolved into ambulatory beings as I then saw how the hair patches had somehow scaled their way up the hair products display case in what I can only imagine was an effort to escape. My mother looked at me with the sort of fear in her eyes one never wants their parent to experience. She motioned gently with her head as if to say, “Come on, let’s make a run for it.” Before I could respond the “Beauty Place” door opened and in walked a Hassidic gentleman in traditional garb who smiled and introduced himself as Reuven, our exit plan was reduced to a mere fantasy, we would have to go through with the appointment.
Luckily, we had both been vaccinated against Typhoid and so the chance of permanent illness was largely unlikely. Reuven decided that I should go first and quickly examined my mostly honey blond locks before disappearing behind the pink plastic curtain to no doubt mix up his Hassidic hair brew. He emerged a mere moment later and clipped a coral pink plastic poncho around my neck with a laundered but permanently stained formerly white towel tucked inside and secured together with a plastic clip that seemed to have some sort of hardened wax blob stuck on one side. He began applying the brew to my hair close to the scalp with a generous splashing technique which resulted in the mixture splattering onto the poncho, my ears and occasionally parts of my face. This resulted in a very slight burning sensation but was easily addressed by Reuven generously offering me another laundered but soiled towel with which to wipe off the excess.
Reuven suddenly stopped the splashing application of the mixture and asked whether my mother or I wanted something to drink. Wisely I declined imagining him serving me tea in a color mixing bowl with a kind smile, but my daring mother accepted and requested some water. I threw her a shocked and admonishing glance but she smiled feeling invincible with her recent Hep-A, Typhoid, and Tetanus vaccinations. Fortunately Reuven presented her with a plastic disposable cup filled with water; unfortunately I cannot vouch for the provenance of the water itself. Mom sipped her water and Reuven returned to slathering my head with his potion. I practiced yoga breathing to calm myself and focus on my intention, “successfully color my roots and get out alive,” which seemed to help. After Reuven had emptied the contents of his mixing bowl onto my head, he tucked the application brush into my now frothy hair which resembled a white pineapple (see pic) and told me I was to wait 25 minutes.
He then turned his attention to my mother and began by washing her hair in his 1930’s era hair basin. His white shirt sleeves were drenched with water and his tzitzit (exposed prayer shawl tassles that peep out from Hassidic men’s waist coats) jingled as he scrubbed and rinsed. Little bits of suds found their way into his prodigious beard giving me a glimpse at what a Hassidic Santa Claus might light look like. Reuven then masterfully blew dry Mom’s hair, truly she looked great (see pic) and then it was my turn to have my hair washed on the antique basin. Fortunately I was still wearing the poncho and so most of the water was kept away from my person as Reuven vigorously washed the mixture from my hair. He then applied a generous amount of cream rinse and combed it through with his hairy knuckled fingers before towel drying me off, adding some leave in conditioner and inviting me once again to sit in the styling chair. I begged off insisting that I always air dry my hair, a white lie yes but the alternative would’ve had Reuven coming my hair with a potentially lice infected implement that had likely been in Mrs. Rosenberg’s dandruff earlier that day and had never seen a Marvy Disinfectant container, and never would. So we paid, and scurried out the door of “Beauty Place” like field mice having narrowly escaped their death. A quick dosing of Purel for the hands, and we headed back to the hotel where in the privacy of my room I finally dared look at myself in the mirror.
Judge for yourself (see pic), but I think Reuven the Hassidic hairdresser did a good job in his squalid filthy salon of giving me a Marilyn Monroe platinum blonde effect, assuming that was his intent, and thankfully it only cost me 200 shekels. Note to self, next time you enter a squalid salon with platinum blonde hair strewn about, turn around and leave immediately no matter how desperate you are for a touch up.
Mom left for her party looking lovely and David and I took the kids to see “Bruno” the movie which, as we learned, is both hilarious and totally inappropriate for children. Justin was appalled that we had taken him to see it, and equally full of questions, “So is Swinging a real thing or were those people all actors you know just pretending?”, and ”How stupid is Paula Abdul?”. Dinner at Gilly’s at the Port and off to bed. For some odd reason I felt like singing “Happy Birthday Mr. President” all night.
No comments:
Post a Comment