I physically and figuratively walked into my regular hair salon in Downtown Crossing. “Lauren isn’t here today,” the receptionist purred. “Angela can take you in ten minutes.” I hesitated. Lauren does a decent job, plus she keeps the conversation light and pleasant. But my hair begged for a cut, and here I was, in the salon with an hour to spare. So I took a chance on Angela.
“Meredith? We’re gonna make you look fabulous today.” A chubby, nondescript woman around my age with a brash South Shore accent steered me over to the sink. It took her all of two minutes to have sufficient cause to declare “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you!”
Over the next 40 minutes, Angela talked non-stop. About her co-workers and the drama of her workplace, where everyone is always stealing each other’s clients, grooming implements, and cigarettes. About her ex-husband, who purchased two condos and three cars in her name before emptying the joint bank account to take a gambling trip to Las Vegas, leaving her bankrupt and lovelorn. “I’ll tell you my philosophy of life,” she whispered in my ear, scissors poised at my neck. “Men suck. They suck.” About her 5-year old daughter, who is a lot of fun, but whose own father can’t remember to pick up from dance class because he’s too busy drinking and drugging. About her mother, who wants to be paid to look after her own grandchild. About Vince Vaughn. Yes, Vince Vaughn, who she once drank with at the Viper Room in LA when she visited her brother 7 years ago, though her brother never visits her here because the weather in Boston is so shitty.
In the last 5 minutes, her virulent spew of words changed into tip-baiting flattery. “You look gorgeous. Your hair is so soft. I can’t believe you’re 30. You look like a baby. Your hair is perfect for this cut.” I tipped Angela 25% and ran out of the salon, exhausted by the manic small-talk that she heaped upon me.
I should have known better. ‘Lauren’ is a name that fills me with warm fuzzy feelings because it’s my sister’s name. But ‘Angela’ is one of those female names that fills me with dread. Ever since grade school, where two of the nastiest girls were named Angela, I’ve been predisposed to not like any Angela, as well as any Missy, Crystal, or Sandra. My bias is usually bourne out by the fact that every woman with one of these names is unpleasantly crazy.
