A Gesture of Kindness
My daughter and grandson live in the Village of Niwot, an annex of Boulder. It is an idyllic place. At the time of this story, about twelve to fifteen years ago, the population of the village was approximately three hundred people. I used to visit often then. I went there for my grandson’s birthdays, his school ceremonies, and any excuse there was to see them. That particular trip Peter and I had gone for Passover. Her cousin and her cousin’s family were there that year as well. I had prepped some food in New York, froze it, and took it along for the celebration. We had a wonderful time. She had a large crowd and had done a fantastic job of hosting everyone. After the holidays, Peter returned home while I stayed behind for another week.
My daughter has a pond at the end of her property. Across the pond, there is a farm with cows, horses, and chicken. One could walk across the footbridge by the pond. On the right, the path led to the farm, where one could purchase farm fresh eggs, milk, and butter if one desired. On the left, the path led to the village square. There, one could find the basic amenities. There was a dry cleaner and there was a little supermarket. There also was a delightful French restaurant where we went for bouillabaisse a couple of times. The bouillabaisse was utterly delicious, by the way! One time we dined in their charming garden, another time we ate inside. There was a dry cleaner and a beauty salon. It was a tiny salon no bigger than an average-sized room. There were two stations for styling hair, an upright hairdryer was situated next to them. Nestled in an alcove, in the corner was a manicure table and two spots to wash hair. The place reminded me of the hair salon in the film, Fried Green Tomatoes, which had a salon very similar to that one.
The next week, it was time to return home. I had been there a fortnight. My hands and nails were a sight. I decided to walk down to the hair salon before I returned. I sauntered across my daughter’s garden, to the pond and crossed the footpath. One path led to the farm, the other to the shops. I followed the path to where the few shops were located. It did not look like a commercial strip. The shops were made to appear like quaint little cottages. The surrounding area was inviting. There was an attractive garden-like area filled with foliage and flowers. I stopped to get my bearings and locate the beauty shop. Ah! There it was. There was an old fashioned sign hanging above the door. I walked towards it and climbed a few steps. I pushed the door open. As I did so, a little bell announced my presence. Two female heads turned to look at me. One of them walked towards me. “May I help you?” she asked.
’’I would like to have my nails done,” I said.
“I’m afraid the manicurist is not here at the moment. I can give you an appointment for tomorrow. What time shall I make it for?”
“That is not possible. I have a flight to catch tomorrow,” I said.
She looks at me for a moment. She made her mind up. “I will call her and see if she can accommodate you now.”
She returned shortly. “She will be here soon. Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable,” she said and walked away.
I sat and leafed through some magazines as I waited. The other woman was busy blow-drying the hair of a young girl. The radio was softly playing some contemporary music. I became engrossed in an article in the magazine on my lap. The door opened once more and the bell sounded its little tinkle. I raised my head, wondering if it was the manicurist. It seemed not, for the woman once more asked, “May I help you?”
The person that entered seemed hesitant and anxious. She was quite attractive and appeared to be in her late thirties, early forties. She had shoulder-length light brown hair. I did not know why, but I was looking at her curiously. Perhaps because she should have had a self-assured attitude and she did not. Attractive women knew they were good-looking and their demeanor announced it. It seemed to say, “Don’t you wish you were as good-looking as me?” This one did not give that impression.
When she spoke, I realized why. In a shaky voice, she said, “I am to start chemo in a few days. My doctor advised me to shave off my hair. Do you do that?”
I looked at her with tears pooling in my eyes. The poor thing. So young! Why was life sometimes so cruel? I forgot the article in the magazine. I forgot the manicurist. My heart went out to the poor creature standing so bravely in the middle of that tiny salon. The hairdresser led her to the empty station. When she was seated, she draped her. Without a word of kindness or assurance, she proceeded to shear her hair. The lovely tresses were rapidly falling to the floor piteously. Her head was bent. Her eyes were closed. The expression on her face was one of fright and pain. Her lips quivered. I think if she were alone, she would have allowed her tears to flow down her cheeks. She would have wailed and cried out in bewilderment, “Why? Why? Why?” But she was not alone. She sat among strangers. She could not bear looks of pity. Who could? I felt the need to get up and enfold her in my arms and comfort her. But such a thing could not be done. I was a stranger to her. No, that was definitely inappropriate!
At last, the job was done. She raised her head. She looked at her reflection in the mirror with dismay. Her sheared head was white, and her scalp had turned into a shiny bald pate. Her eyes were dark pools of misery. Her face was as white as a sheet. Her trembling lips said, “Thank you. How much do I owe you.”
The cold-hearted woman said, “Fifty dollars.”
“Fifty dollars?” the young woman asked in disbelief.
“Fifty dollars,” the hairdresser coldly reiterated.
Fifty dollars, I thought incredulously? Why, a shampoo, cut, and blow in New York at that time cost thirty-five dollars! How could this greedy, heartless woman, in a tiny little village, take such advantage of someone who was in need of great love, understanding, and compassion, I thought. How could people be so cruel and unfeeling? To this woman, it was an opportunity to take advantage of someone who was down on her luck and was at her most fragile frame of mind. I walked with my head bent down, as I wondered at such heartlessness. Sadly, I made my way back to my daughter.