The cheapest haircut on earth

My grandmother had a lot to get used to when she moved from Bensonhurst to Park Slope. First was the dearth of elderly people of any kind, but in particular Italians. Second was the exorbitant price of everything but in particular, groceries. The thing about Park Slope is, one never gets used to just how insanely expensive everything is, especially if one is 80 years old and used to prices which haven't changed since the 1960s.

Case in point: my grandmother's beauty shop.

Last week, my grandmother had to go to a wedding, for the granddaughter of one of her best friends. She needed a haircut. Now I can never really tell the difference when Nonnie gets her hair cut -- it goes from boy short to slightly boy shorter -- but you better believe she can tell the difference.

"I can't go to dis weddin' witoutta haircut," she said early in the week, "Where do you get you hair cut?"

"There's a place around the corner," I told her, "Its pretty cheap."

"Oh yeah," she said, "How much?"

"About $60, I think," I said.

"No, Nicole," she said, clucking her teeth, "You wrong."

"You get you hair color, and so dat's why you pay $60," she went on.

"Well I do get highlights," I said, "But those cost more than $60. Those are probably $75/ 80 on top of the haircut."

She looked at me in horror, speechless.

"Whaddayou, crazy?" she asked, "You wanna know how much I pay to get my hair cut in Brooklyn?"

I have stopped reminding her that Park Slope is Brooklyn. Its futile.

"How much?"

"Guess," she coaxed me.

"I don't know, $35? $30?"

Nonnie got that terrifically satisfied look she gets on her face when she has found an amazing bargain, outwitted people from robbing her blind.

:$15," she said, "including tip."

"FIFTEEN DOLLARS?" I asked her.

"Yes," she confirmed, "$13, and then I give her $2 for tip."

"And you know how much Maria pays to get the color?"

"I can't even imagine."

"$26," she replied, proudly, "For that, you get you head washed, hair cut, hair color, and she blow dry you hair."

"You don't have to include the head washing part," I told her, "That comes with the price, everybody gets their hair washed when its cut."

"Oh no, I'm sorry, you wrong," she corrected me, "To wash you head, that's extra. But I pay $15 and I get my head washed."

"Well, I don't think you'll do better than that. I don't think you can buy a pair of scissors to cut your own hair for that price. I think you should go get it done in Bensonhurst."

And today, $15 lighter in the pocket, she is the proud owner of a slightly shorter boy haircut. The hairspray involved in the 'do alone probably cost more than $10. You can't beat Bensonhurst for a bargain.

Who knew this was an S & M hair salon?

In honor of my birthday last week I decided to dedicate a little time to beauty. Nothing crazy, just what I’d call light grooming -- a mani/pedi and half a head of highlights.

When you’ve had two kids and have forfeited the joys of heavy drinking, smoking, drug use and casual sex, well, there’s not to many ways to get your kicks anymore. The occasional piece of chocolate cake or double espresso, maybe a Claritin D once in a while – and every so often, getting your hair washed at the salon. There’s nothing like getting your hair washed in a special sink devised to insure your comfort. Luxury! Relaxation! I, for one, think its absolutely sublime to have someone wash my hair, and that’s what I remind my kids of this whenever I’m shampooing them and they’re whining and crying and batting my hand away.

But on this particular occasion at the salon, I was in for a little surprise because I was assigned to a Rose, the Rough Hair-Handler. Rose greeted me at the front desk and introduced herself as colorist’s assistant (now is the part in the story where you find out that I get my hair done at a fancy salon that I can not afford, where everyone employed has an assistant. Even the coat check girl has an assistant and if that isn’t a one-person job, I don’t know what it.) As colorist’s assistant, Rose is expected to do things like fetch the clients green tea and magazines, hand the colorist foils, and set the timer which keeps track of how long the peroxide has been in my hair. But the most important responsibility, by far, is the washing of the processed hair.

By the looks of her, Rose would be a gentle and careful hair-washer, the kind that gave you an extra-long cranial massage and made absolutely sure the water temperature was just right. She had long, wavy brown hair, a round face and freckles – in other words, the kind of sweet, homespun girl who belonged on a prairie somewhere, not in the rat race.

Oh, but how misled I was. Because the hair-washing Rose gave me was as close to S and M as I’ve yet to get. First the scalding, steaming water on the scalp. And I don’t like to make trouble, see, so I tried to withstand the heat but finally I had to ask, meekly, if she couldn’t make it a little colder. Then I was treated to an ice-bath, and after that I didn’t dare complain.

But the water temperature was the least of it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it was the Yeti washing my hair. The girl had hands like a lumberjack. She yanking my hair and flung strands of it to and fro, rubbing and scrubbing like she was a crazy evangelical and I was a sinner she had to purify. Then she doused my entire upper face with the nozzle of water. Thankfully, she kept the water above my nose or I could have made a case it was

borderline water torture.

And that was BEFORE the mandated fancy-salon cranial massage.

When I sat up, my mascara was running, and my neck, shoulders and ears were absolutely coated in conditioner.

“Oooooh the color looks great!” she exclaimed with a smile as sweet as anything,” Do you want a blow out?”

“NO!” I cried.

God knows what the girl could do with a blow drier.

Online jerkwads and facebook fascists and Uma Thurman

I juat read this great, funny, insightful Salon article called

Everybody Hates Mommy

The witer, Lynn Harris, tries to figure out why the hell Park Slope Mommy is suddenly Public Enemy Number 1. And in investigating this, she ventures that maybe its because everybody seems to hate mothers in general (at least white, urban ones). She points to the vicious comments she got when she wrote a piece for the Times about how people tended not to offer her a seat on the subway when she was pregnant; variations on the theme of "I didn't knock you up, lady. Stop feeling so damn entitled."

Big subject. But as Thanksgiving is tomorrow and there is shit to cook and balloons to watch being inflated I will offer these points:

1. A reference to Jocasta in the same breath as "anonymous online jerkwad factor"? Loving it.

2. I have never run anyone over with my stroller as I rushed to pilates class or Whole Foods, mainly because I can't afford either. But were I offered a free trial, boo-yah! Watch out singletons because I'll made roadkill of whoever stands in the way of my time on the reformer ir fair-trade organic, locally-grown and sustainable stuff.

3. Did you know you can't post pictures of moms breastfeeding on facebook? I'd protest those fascists if I wasn't oh-so-totally hooked. Plus facebook affords people the chance to publicly "like" me. But man, what the what?

4. I didn't see Motherhood - and if you did, feel free to enligthten us with your review. But if I wsa Uma and heard that by making a Mommy movie some asswipe said he'd never jerk off to me again, I imagine I'd feel two things simultanesouly. Relief-- one less scheeveball stalker to worry about -- and also total rage. I'd feel so enraged that I'd post a big old video of my childbirth on youtube followed by a video of me manually expressing brestmilk from breasts with cracked nipples. Oh, what? You don't find this hot? This is where you came from, blockhead.

But that's just me.

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