The Woman at the Third Chair
A perm is a funny thing. Its soft, shapely curls have the ability to accentuate only your greatest of features. It also has the ability to show you who you truly are, what you're really made of. If placed under the dryer too long, it can resurrect awkward, uneasy sentiments of your adolescence when you could neither control nor understand your outward appearance. A perm is not for the faint of heart. It is the best of times, and it is the worst of times. For me, it is also a memory. Of a woman, specifically. Named Kathy.
Kathy always welcomed me into her salon. With a curious brain and sticky fingers, I would run into the small room. At 8 years old, I always hoped to catch my mom while she was sill getting her hair dyed. I was fascinated by the amount of colored goo in her hair. It was purple by the time I would get there. I never liked the smell though, and bleach still makes my stomach turn.
I'd skip over to Mom’s seat, which was always the second from the door. Another hairdresser, Anne, would stand tall next to the chair, she and mom catching up on the latest gossip and goings-on. Catherine Zeta Jones came up a lot. I’d wonder if she was a neighbor or another woman in the salon. I didn't know and, really, didn't care. I'd interrupt the conversation to offer my hello’s while secretly holding my breath. Then I'd hop over to the next chair — Kathy's.
I felt like the only kid in the room when Kathy greeted me. I mean I was the only kid in the room. But knowing that and actually feeling that are two totally different things. She'd ask me what was new, what I was up to, and what I learned in school. I really ever answered with a quiet "not much," maybe with a slight head tilt and cracked smile. I was never a big talker, but Kathy carried enough energy in the conversation for the both of us.
My world changed when I was 12 years old and I got my first haircut at my mom's salon. It was certainly a big deal. It was an adult salon and I got to sit in the grown-up chair. No animal seats in the back, and no safety scissors on-hand. It was seriously one of the best times for my young self — possibly for my whole self. I felt Kathy was the logical choice for my first big-girl hairdresser, for her free spirit resonated within a part of me that had not yet developed. Hopefully she could bring it out. In the end, she was a great choice. She gave me a stellar haircut. I felt just like Catherine Zeta Jones, whoever she was.
Kathy gave me the same layered haircut for the next several years. Even if I stumbled into a different salon on a pinch, I would never ask for anything different. Though, that poor hairdresser could never hold a candle to Kathy’s skilled hands.
Eventually, as teenagers often do, I had become bored with my look and wanted to spice it up. So I asked Kathy for the next best thing. I was born in the early 90s and hadn’t been around long enough to fully know and understand the gravity of what I wanted. I was now 16 years old and asking Kathy for a perm. Yes, a perm.
Even though I let the curls grow out in a really unfortunate way, looking back I am not surprised by the results of the styling session. What I am surprised by is Kathy’s reaction to the request. She did not question my sureness or intentions — or sanity. She simply agreed and once again tried her damnedest to give a great hairstyle to a dumb teenager with a dumb idea. And she succeeded.
I have thought about that perm often over the years. I have thought about it as Kathy sat across from me at countless Thanksgiving dinners, her loud and familiar voice booming through the room. She had that ability to fit nicely and comfortably into families that did not share her last name.
I thought about the perm as Kathy married her super cool boyfriend in her backyard.
And then I thought about it when I did not want to think about it.
Kathy lived 58 beautiful years before cancer got the upper hand in 2015. I will truly miss her and the happiness she brought to my family. Though that's a selfish thought, to believe that my family were the only ones blessed enough to know her smile. She gave equal and unprecedented love to every human being she encountered. If only I could match that intensity.
That third chair from the door, in that familiar salon, will always be Kathy’s. It breaks my heart to know that I will never meet her there again. But her life, her spirit is what is giving me solace. I am finding comfort in picturing a small room, and there, toward the back, a gregarious woman welcoming her new client. And the idea of Jesus getting a really great haircut makes me smile.
Kathryn Keller, 1956–2015