Some months back I wrote about my experiences while sitting in the waiting room of a tire store. Today is something different. It is still me. And I am still sitting in a waiting room. But this time the waiting room is at my wife’s hair salon. There is an old sci-fi novel called “A Stranger In A Strange Land”. I think this title applies to my current wait.

For most of my life, I have tried to stay as far away from the topic of my wife’s hair as I possibly could. “Women and hair” is a phrase that has escaped from my mouth more times than I could count. Now it usually comes from my wife’s mouth, following an “I know . . . ” as she rolls her eyes. This usually happens after I have failed the test of noticing how this haircut (or is it hairstyle?) differs from the last one. As a guy, I approach hair from a utilitarian aspect. It needs to be washed and combed and occasionally cut, but otherwise it is just one more on a long list of maintenance items in my world.

Of late, I have been sucked into a different world when it comes to hair. Marianne has not been driving. But even people who are not comfortable getting behind the wheel have hair that continues to grow. One thing we agree on is that I am not about to offer to cut her hair, and she is not about to allow me to cut her hair. Our point of agreement is that it would be traumatic for both of us, and therefore best avoided. Many years of marriage bring a husband and wife into agreement on things like this. So, our fallback has been for me to drive her to the hair salon and wait until the beautification process has been completed.

This process would be easier if I could hang out in the basement studio in a hair stylist’s home. Like the place where Marianne used to go. We did that a couple of times. However, that staircase down to the basement (and back up again) became a problem, so now the choice is a salon in one of those modern suburban shopping plazas (which I don’t think they call “plazas” anymore). Which must be the only shopping center in this entire upscale community without a Starbucks in which to sip on overpriced coffee while I wait.

So, I will be the interloper into a world in which I have no part. I understand this, but can do nothing about it. There is hair to be cut. And styled. And washed, apparently. It’s a process, I am told. It is warm outside so I have elected to come inside to wait, instead of staying out in the car as I have on more temperate days. I kind of hate that waiting room, truth be told, but here I am. I will be the guy who is obsessed with his computer.

The first problem is the chair situation. This place was clearly designed by a professional decorator. You know, the kind who makes everything look simply faaaahhhhhbulous. Which doesn’t usually translate to comfortable and inviting. There are two decent chairs. On prior visits, I have been able to snag one of them. But not today, as an unending series of ladies has been cycling in and out of them during the various stages of the mysterious doings farther back in the building. There is also small loveseat, but I feel awkward taking up a place where two people can sit, like the mother and her teenage son who were there earlier. So I get one of three undersized, uncomfortable stools against a small table that faces the wall. Except it is not deep enough for me to face the wall with my open laptop, so I sit at an angle. I wonder if I will be given the opportunity to take a survey. Probably not. Which is for the best.

There is loud music that has been playing nonstop since I got here. The songs are those you hear wherever the Wine-Moms congregate. I guess it could be worse. Really, a TV tuned to ESPN wouldn’t be any better. I am a guy who appreciates his quiet places. This is not one of them.

One of the chair women (meaning one of the ladies sitting in one of the chairs I have been covetously eying) must be a fairly high-powered one. She has not only been on her laptop, but also on her phone. There is too much noise for me to make out much of the conversation. Perhaps this is the design – and probably a good one. And who knows, she could be writing a blog post about the guy with the quite un-stylish haircut who sits in the waiting room but never goes in to see a stylist.

Ooh, on the other end of the table where I sit is a display for “MAGNESIUM BODY RUB”. A mere $24 for 4 ounces, it seems to be quite a bargain. I presume that the rub contains magnesium. Because most bodies of my acquaintance are not made of that material. It boasts of “noticeable results” and an “easy add-on”, but never says what it actually does. Like the blueberry facial a lawyer of my acquaintance got for his dog, it is probably mostly effective at separating cash from people with too much of it in relation to their common sense. Listen to me being all judgmental. But I don’t care because my backside is becoming increasingly sore on this stool.

Because Marianne is getting a basic cut, I am not here long enough to see the parade of before-and-after ladies as they come and go. Which is probably just as well, because I probably would not notice much difference. And even if I were to notice a difference, I have been conditioned by a lifetime of living with women who get their hair done to not say a word until I see which way the wind is blowing. I remember some mighty traumatic sessions with my mother in front of her bathroom mirror after she came home with a “hairdo” (as she called them) that did not make the grade. Even my daughter, early in her elementary school years, go in on that action. I have never forgotten her staring in anger at the bathroom mirror as she enunciated with enough sharpness to chisel granite – “My. Hair. Looks. STUPIT”. She meant “stupid”, but that last “d” came out with enough spitting force that only a “t” can convey it on the sterile page.

Fortunately, Marianne looks happy with the new do as she emerges from the inner regions. The good thing about being there when she walks into the waiting room is that I immediately notice her new haircut. And we are both happy – she is happy because I notice and say something nice about it. And I am happy because we get to go home.