Aqua Net Extra was applied to hold the hair in place for a solid week. The 1960's had many with hair piled up like loaves of monkey bread. Not my hair, mine was corkscrew tight with spit curl sides. Scotch taped for sleeping.
The Beauty Shop was the place we went to get fixed up and lacquered down. Weekly sets cost $2.50, 47 cents a can for hairspray would just about do it. We made appointments every Friday for the next Friday before leaving the shop with the firm promise we would be back for another go at the dream of having the oil changed, the scalp cleaned, the mounds sprayed into shape along with the smoke of a thousand Chesterfields left smelling in the mix.
Kiss our grits Hollywood, we care too.
Yes, we paid our dues with pain and suffering. We never gave a thought of having all that lung sealant fogging while Inez and Louise teased and tugged the hair with those cancer sticks hanging on their lips dribbling ashes and the very real danger of explosion or flash fired hair singe taking us away.
Ash trays were just a suggestion, most butts were thrown onto the grime laden gray tiles to be stomped out. No maintenance since the early 1950's gave the appearance of sever layering of spray, dust and grime covering hair sealed down from a thousand heads.
Today there must be millions of DNA samples still there in that sacred place.
Who cared, we came to get jacked up and entertained.
This was Friday, the weekend required us to shine, the other part of the week was just a bonus if the set lasted.
Most didn't.
The Beauty Shop was the in place for females to bond in those days.
The shoe shop next door offered us old men that hobbled as they brought their worn down boots and shoes to get retreads. Any self respecting man in his right mind wouldn't have knowingly walked across the street in our line of vision had they known what opinions were being shared and laughed about.
Anybody, male of female on the street outside was fair game for having things said to make us laugh.
Across the street, Harts Hotel had rooms to let for railroad working, dedicated porch sitters that watched us come and go, hoping to hear what caused all the ruckus inside our sacred place.
We got cut, dyed and curled while we got the real low down on Flomaton happenings.
The worst part of the process was the twenty minutes ( short hair ) sitting under the hood of those heat blasting dryers. Looking at a five year old copy of Redbook or Hair Today helped, but slumping down to look out and seeing half the shop rolling out of their chair in hysterics as Inez told a "funny" was the worst part of the treatment. If you missed it, you just missed it, because she was off to another rant and that was worth the wait.
Drawing a deep satisfying drag of Chesterfield smoke into her lungs, slinging the hair brush toward the dressing table to clatter about, propping her hand on a hip, she gave us what we came for.
Griping about the mayor, the city council or the new speed bumps was good for a gut busting round. The trains making a switch was good for a quick headache, a client that needed a last minute add on root touch up was almost too much to bear.
Blue pinkish was the color for the old girls, Jet worked for some age resistors and Fried White was very popular with the young at heart.
Inez had a saying for some that were single and looking,
" Fried Yellow, sure to catch a fellow".
" Haw, haw, haw...
Tips were shoved into pockets while she told us what she planned to buy at Gayfers next time they had a sale worth driving to Pensacola for.
" I'm buying a push up bra if it chokes me. Tired of all this mess I'm dragging around".
"Haw, haw, haw...
The shop was vibrant on most days, but let a cold snap come through and the place was filled with homespun...
"Watch that mess frizz, perms don't set well in frigid weather".
" Tried to get her to wait, but NOoooo, she heading to Birmingham this weekend".
" I ain't caring, perm 'er up".
Our hair was what we paid for, THIS, was what we lived for.
As the styles grew higher, her performances grew more refined. She named the styles as they evolved. You knew exactly who she was talking about as she looked at the appointment book to moan and holler out,
" Mercy to God, my next 'un is that Pentacostal Highrise, won't get outta here in time for kickoff tonight".
Loud laughing...
Then there was the confirmation of a really high stacked job.
"Higher the hair, closer to God".
We went religiously, we laughed because we couldn't help ourselves, we moved away to other places and the world kept turning, but we never enjoyed our time in the chair as much as when we were at,
THE BEAUTY SHOP IN FLOMATON
