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“Everything but the kitchen sink…”

January 14, 2010 by Cynthia

I bonded with my kitchen sink this morning. American Standard, porcelain, two basins, nothing fancy and definitely not new – something like me.

Sinks. To “sink,” is to “become submerged,” or “go under.” A cavity, a reservoir that holds – like a carbon sink – until it is time to move on. Or that “sinking feeling,” when your energy seeps away from a disturbing sight.

Sinks are located in the kitchen, the most popular place at a party and a place where food is grubbed, cooked and primped. Sinks are the things that generally hold what is done, unlike the refrigerator, that holds things that are waiting.

Before dishwashers, dishes shrugged their debris off in sinks and emerged clean again. Sometimes they still do. Sinks can hold different forms – dishes, foods, liquids, a shoe – now and then – that needs to be scrubbed.

Sinks seem pretty solid. They can take the messy stuff, what’s too hot, and what’s too cold, what’s been used up. A bit like a good friend who can handle what you’ve got. I’m grateful for my sink.

Posted in Reflections on the everyday | 1 Comment »

It was the hair salon…

January 13, 2010 by Cynthia

You know – the reason why I decided to start this blog, the hair salon.

The lovely young woman at the check-in desk was casting envious sidelong glances at the bride. The bride, having her hair arranged for her wedding that day, was aglow. Partly from the deep tan (likely obtained from the tanning salon down the sidewalk) but mostly, because it was her big day.

“Brent,” a good friend, rushed in with the veil to be attached to the circlet, saving the day.

The mother, tired, pleased and looking on. The bridesmaid, chatty with gravity-defying beautiful hair.

There is something about a bride — something that gives anyone pause, even if you have no relation to the wedding party. Is it the thrill of the arrangements, the ritual of passing from one identity to another, the “special day?”

Or is it the secret knowledge held by married folks that, despite this luminous moment, neither the bride nor the groom, have any idea what they are getting themselves into?

Nonetheless, older women around the salon smile and watch – grandmothers, children, the middle-aged – happy for her excitement, for her future, whatever it brings her.

Hair salons, mostly women, a niche in a strip mall in Anytown, USA. Walls come down, hair goes up, a society of both superficial and profound understanding – a society of high heel boots tucked into tight jeans, of highlighted, choppy, breathtaking hair.

Women getting married, women round in pregnancy, the women with a two-month old who speaks in a strong voice that breastfed babies are whiney and learn to be manipulative. Later, she’s gone. Her stylist whispers, “she’s from California originally.” “Oh,” I say, now sharing in the secret cause of it all.

Tools for cutting hair, a place to land for awhile, to focus on looks instead of life. Somehow life still manages to work its way in.

Hair salons are deceptively simple, complicated places. Of hair and days that have become untidy, to be cut and styled to grow again.

Yes, that’s what did it, the hair salon.

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