Gorgeous Beauty "Saloon"
NEW Fiction!!! Part 1 of a short story in two parts.
Gorgeous Beauty "Saloon"(Part 1 of 2)
The first time I met Manjeet was also the first time I went to her beauty salon. My mother called her to tell her that I was coming. Presumably, also that I was a fussy client and only willing to give Manjeet’s place a try out of sheer desperation. When I pulled open the door to the cramped two-room shop refashioned into a salon, I almost turned around and fled.
The place reeked of fresh paint—a mint green—and was overflowing with beauty supplies. Half open cardboard boxes with bottles, jars, smaller boxes, and all ilk of devices for steaming faces, heating wax, drying and styling tresses sat on counters waiting to be stuffed into hungry cabinets all of which stood with their doors ajar. Three oversized adjustable salon chairs—one in use and two still wrapped in plastic—sat like thrones facing a wall of mirrors, along with a clearly still-under-construction shampoo station. The latter had been improvised with a white plastic, decidedly non-tiltable garden chair, and a deep black professional ceramic sink, fitted with what seemed like a garden hose instead of a handheld showerhead. The place was clearly in the throes of being set up. To top this, it looked like they’d just received a new supply shipment and several boxes sat right in the middle of the floor leaving just enough room to squeeze around if you needed to get past.
Manjeet was the first person I saw. Actually, what I saw was her head behind the boxes. She was talking, apparently instructing one of her assistants who I couldn’t see. She too saw me right away. Before I could withdraw, she squeezed past the boxes, and stood before me, clasping one of my hands.
“Welcome, welcome! Aunty called me to tell me you were coming!”
Her broad smile and her sturdy body radiated a pleasant, practical quality, as if reassuring me I was in good hands. I relaxed a little but withdrew my hand.
This visit was an act of desperation, against my better judgment. That day, I needed a reliable salon for an emergency visit, preferably not too far from where my parents lived. I had to get rid of my graying hair roots before I went to visit an aunt who was as judgey as she was old.
The fancier salon I typically patronized had disappeared without a trace. For two days I called them for an appointment but no one picked up. Finally, I decided to just show up, since walk-ins are the norm at such establishments in India. When I got there I found the place boarded up. The building was “kunn-dum” (condemned), I was informed.
“The contractor is in jail, didi. Many cases on him. Parlor ka patah nahin,” a passer-by about my age, if not older, nevertheless addressing me as “older sister” shrugged. He shook his head in a signature pendulum move that suggested neither yes nor no. No one seemed to know if the “parlor” had shut down or set up shop elsewhere.
In India these places are called parlors. They provide head-to-toe beautification services—head oil massage, hair cut, hair “dyeing”, eyebrow threading, and waxing of hair on various body parts being the most popular. The latter entails hands-on hair removal for a fraction of what I’d pay for it in the US. Plus in India, the staff always offers to bring you a stiff, sweet tea or “something soft—Thumsup, Limca?”
The service invariably involves one or two young women waiting on you. They get through the services with speed and precision you can’t get elsewhere. Not for this price anyway. Besides, class differences, and the equally acute consciousness of it in Indian society, means you’re attended to like royalty. Many Indians living abroad like me indulge such luxuries when visiting India, marveling at the incomparable level of service, yet comfortably blind to the substrate upon which its differentiation persists.
That day after I ran out of options my mother suggested I try Manjeet with a list of reasons I couldn’t argue with, “She’s just starting out. She gave me a very good haircut. Her prices are reasonable…plus she needs help.”
“Why does she need help?” I asked, even more peevishly, thinking everybody here needs help!
Apparently, Manjeet’s husband had been in the infantry and had lost a leg in a skirmish with Pakistan. He was summarily discharged from the army, and awarded a small sum to start a business.
“He’s not doing anything. Sits around all day. So Manjeet has started this salon with the money. Give her a chance.”
I relented, swearing this was the only time. It was just a hair color touch up and I was going to insist they only use my preferred brand of hair color.
Manjeet’s salon was housed in a building I’d driven by dozens of times. I didn’t like the haphazardly planned market the building was located in, the open sewer that flowed shamelessly by the market even less. The building looked like it had not received another coat of paint after its original construction. I doubt anyone knew what the original color might have been. Inside the building, dust piled in every corner as if only that portion of the floors was swept where shoppers needed to walk. Paan-spit stains marked random yet specific spots on the outer walls, a result of a strange collusion among the spitters. I discovered that Majeet’s salon was the only somewhat clean and well-lit space in that entire building. Still I became irritated with the signboard that announced Gorgeous Beauty “Saloon”. No one corrected it. Neither did I. I wasn’t coming back.
But then Manjeet turned out to be really good—better than my preferred fancy salon. She listened carefully to instructions, her carefully threaded brows raising slightly as she listened. Then she worked fast, without missing my micro demands and only used quality products. I found myself watching her as she dashed about the salon, multitasking endlessly in her eminently practical and well-fitted salwar kameez and sneakers. She never bothered with a chunni that would only get in the way. I figured the chunni was tucked away somewhere only to be deployed across her shoulders when she stepped outside the salon. She stood barely a couple of inches above five feet—petite by American standards but above average in India. Yet she towered over her reed-thin assistants whose frames could easily be mistaken for those of ten-year olds in richer societies. The kind of shortness and thinness that comes from early childhood malnutrition, bodily imprints so common that most of us didn’t notice them.
Amidst the bustle of work, Manjeet asked me how my parents were doing and listened to my answer. Later I came to notice how she always asked about them, seemingly to sense the angst beneath my frequent India visits. She’d say, “Aunty has a big heart. It must be hard for you living so far away?”
At the end of that first visit, my hair looked amazing—styled, smooth and pampered. Even my judgey aunty wanted to know where I’d had it styled.
“Thank you mamiji, just some corner place,” I replied, laughing.
I wondered if I’d underestimated the place. Plus the virtue points—after all by patronizing “Gorgeous…” I was helping another woman, an army wife with a disabled husband trying to make it in a merciless world. My resolve to never return faltered.
***
The second time I saw Manjeet was three months later. It was in the middle of my next visit to India. I’d still not looked for a fancier place. So I went back. I was surprised by how much nicer the inside of the salon looked—even though it was still inside the shabby building, in the even shabbier market, next to the still open sewer. All the supplies had been put away. The countertops were clean and the mirrors shone. A makeshift space had been created in the back with a curtain that ran on a curved railing, for privacy for clients who needed waxing services. Manjeet had a larger staff now. Two new girls who could’ve been twins, but weren’t. Not even sisters. Same profile—petite, dusky, reed thin.
Manjeet listened to my requests, carefully clarifying any questions and then had the assistants attend to me.
“How’s aunty?” they both asked almost simultaneously, as if they’d been trained to supply concern as part of the service. Manjeet kept checking on them and correcting their work, never once forgetting my minute instructions.
Before long I was out of there—happy and satisfied despite the misspelled sign board, the dusty building and the sour smell emanating from the sewer.
***
The third time was during my next visit to India, six months later. The salon had doubled in size. Manjeet had bought the store next door and expanded into it. When I saw her she looked harried. She smiled. “How’re your parents?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. My father was fading before our eyes from Parkinson’s and my mother was aging doubly fast caring for him. But who was without worry or misery here?
Her expression softened. “Come with me. I’ll do your work today. My girls are busy.” She motioned me to follow her to a new back room. As I passed through, I noticed a man working in the salon. She addressed him as “Mr. Kumar”, rather formally. He seemed to be assigned to hair—cutting, coloring, shampooing and head massages. Gaunt, with hooded eyes, he was only a couple of inches taller than Manjeet. He didn’t look at me, just nodded, maintaining a respectful formality. But he seemed social with Manjeet’s girls.
“If you dress in rani pink, some shahzada will carry you off. Then what will we do?” I heard him teasing one of them. They all laughed.
“Your business is doing well,” I said to Manjeet, as I sat on a chair and leaned back for her to start threading my eyebrows. She nodded, turning away.
When she turned back to me, I could have sworn her eyelashes were wet but she refused to look at me. As she rolled back her sleeves, I noticed bruises on her wrists.
She saw me notice them but didn’t say anything.
“Are you OK?” I bumbled.
She nodded. “Normal. Don’t worry.”
I didn’t push it.
***
The fourth time was when I got a call from the salon. They were canceling my appointment. Manjeet had been taken away by the police, one of Manjeet’s girls on the phone told me.
“What?” I was shocked. “What happened?”
The girl hesitated. “Her husband killed himself. That kamina used to beat her. Even by committing suicide he’s created problems for her. Her in-laws are blaming her. The police took her away.”
“Which police station?”
“Sector 20 thana.”
I asked my parent’s driver to take me to the police station.
My mother wasn’t so sure. “What can you do? Especially if she’s been arrested? They’ll involve you too!”
The driver didn’t approve either. “Didi, the thana is no place for you.”
“Nothing will happen. Let’s go.”
So he drove me, sitting stiffly in his seat, after I insisted.
Just as we reached the police station, I spotted Manjeet walking out across the street. She reached the edge of the road and stood there alone, looking lost. I told the driver to stop, rolled down the window and called to her. She looked at me in surprise then walked over and burst into tears.
“Get in the car,” I insisted, opening the door and sliding over.
“I have to pick up my daughter from school. I’ll go to my sister’s.”
“What about your parents?”
“No, not them.” She shook her head.
We went to her daughter’s school. Manjeet went in while I waited in the car. She came back with her eight-year old daughter and they both sat down quietly inside the car. I asked Manjeet to give the driver her sister’s address. I had no idea what I was doing but I didn’t know what to say or ask, especially with her daughter right there. We reached her sister’s home in about twenty minutes. She got out with her daughter and looked at me.
“Thank you.”
I nodded.
The next day I called her cell phone. The same number I would call to schedule appointments. It was the only number I had. No answer. Then several more times. No one picked up. No one uses voicemail in India but I left a message anyway. She never called back. Then I had to leave for the US. I had a feeling I’d never see her again. But I did.
***
The fifth time I saw Manjeet was back at her salon. My mother told me she’d heard that Manjeet was doing well but hadn’t seen her in months. My father’s fast deteriorating condition meant my mother focused on little else, despite my exhortations to take care of herself. Another battle I couldn’t win. But I didn’t want to think about such impending givens.
I decided to go to the salon one afternoon for a quick visit. I wanted to see how Manjeet was doing. When I walked in, the salon was abuzz. Mr Kumar was working three clients, managing a couple of girls, barking orders at them. He appeared larger than I remembered.
“Arre hold the dryer straight. Arm is too weak or what? Common sense!”
And
“Shampoo massage. Scalp needs blood circulation. Ten minutes.”
He smiled ingratiatingly at the women clients who smiled back.
The girls looked a little sullen but carried out his wishes. Manjeet was working behind the curtain of the makeshift space in the back. When she came out I noticed her kameez hung much looser on her. She looked at me and nodded. Probably working too hard. The client she was working on came out from behind the curtain after her. It was a woman about my age.
“How much?” she asked.
Manjeet looked at Mr Kumar who gave an imperceptible nod. This was new! Then Manjeet looked skyward as if counting in her head. This was also new. She always counted out loud, transparently adding up the prices for the services rendered.
Then she said, “Fifteen hundred and twenty five.”
The woman looked up from her purse. “Prices increased?”
Manjeet nodded slightly, looking over at Mr. Kumar. So did the woman. Mr Kumar ignored them both. The woman paid and left.
Manjeet looked at me as I stood there speechless. I pointed to my eyebrows. She motioned me to one of the swivel chairs, tilted me back and began threading my eyebrows. The one end of the thread in her mouth meant she couldn’t talk. I had the feeling she wasn’t going to say much anyway. And that Mr. Kumar was not taking instructions from her anymore…
TO BE CONTINUED…
~~~
—reena kapoor
Is Part 2 available, Reena? I clicked on it but got a “data missing” message.
Enjoyed the story Reena. The descriptions are so vivid. Felt like I'm walking down that street and entering the salon myself. Waiting eagerly for part 2