Today I indulged in a trip to the salon for some pampering and proper gray hair coverage.
Enjoying the contrast of heat on my head and air conditioning on my feet, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a wall of girls in front of the salon windows. Then I saw opposite the girls a photographer taking pictures. Add to that a series of matching flip-flops and the mental math added up to: Wedding party of the hairdo variety.
The door opens, the girls file in and high-pitched voices fill the air over the dryer blowing in my ears. As the girls come closer to my sitting area I'm a bit entertained. It's a bit fun to observe the controlled chaos of excitement and repeated question, "What are you going to do." There's even a large three ring notebook with tabs marking the hair styles for each of the party members.
However, my entertainment quickly turned to discomfort when my personal space quickly began to disappear. They had taken over the dryer chair next to me and as I'm backing my face out of one girls ass, my leg bumps the photog who is directing everyone to get closer so she can get the shot.
I thought they would move away, but they just kept coming. I want to flee or say something, but I can't.
And I'm staring. At the skinny butt that is no less than 6 inches from my nose. And then I look at the photog's butt which has moved off to the side of me. And the butt of the hairdresser doing the mother of the bride's hair and I begin dying inside.
Out of all of the scenarios I could have pulled for my Friday afternoon, this went from irritating to awesome. Awesome because I'm pretty sure I was close enough to those girls that there may be a photo out there with a group of pretty young girls, where off to the side an older girl with enough tin foil and product to create Phyllis Diller hair, sits all wide-eyed and grouchy-faced staring at the ass that was encroaching in her space.
Even if the photo doesn't exist, I can sit back and chuckle at what it would have looked like through the lens of a camera.