It would probably encourage customers to give bigger tips too. Tipsy equals tips, I thought, and laughed silently.
When the buzzer sounded on the heat lamp, the color-mixing girl came over and led me to the “backwash,” which was, by any other name, a sink.
I allowed the tinfoil to be unwrapped from my hair. She ran warm water through it, and then shampooed it clean.
Her fingers were firm and deft, and I marveled at the generosity of those humans who performed intimate services for others.
I hadn’t had anyone else wash my hair since as far back as I could remember.
I suppose Mummy must have washed it for me when I was an infant, but it was hard to imagine her performing any tender ministrations of this type.
After the shampoo was rinsed away, the girl performed a “shiatsu head massage.”
I have never known such bliss. She kneaded my scalp with firm tenderness and precision,
and I felt the hairs stand up on my forearms, then a bolt of electricity run down my spine.
It ended about nine hours before I would have liked it to.
“You had a lot of tension in your scalp,” she said sagaciously,
while she rinsed out the conditioning cream. I had no idea how to respond, and opted for a smile,
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