The Weekly Beauty Shop Appointments
circa 1970 The Union clothing store front window display
I have posted various images of my mom and told stories about her over the years. I haven't had that luxury as of late thanks to covid — many of you have mentioned how much you miss the stories and want more, so I decided I shall oblige you at least monthly, if not more. Be forewarned I am not a writer but a storyteller. I love to share stories, whether it is with my weavings, photography, patterns, or verbally. Stories others tell me I have tried to capture with images or words, but keep that in mind as you read, that not all are their words simply the gist of the story. I am also not a professional writer.
My Mom, Mary Elizabeth Browne, was born May 26th, 1928, to an older couple named Harry and Betty, who already had a son named James Richard Browne. Mom hated her mother... a story for another day, and I'm not sure it is mine to tell, to be honest. I was born to my mother on December 27th, 1968; 4 months later lost my biological father; almost a year after my birth met my father and married him on February 27th, 1970. That pretty much sums up the start of my life; the rest revolved around her hair. The weekly Beauty Shop appointments are where I learned a lot about life, being a woman, and my mom.
BJ's Beauty Parlor was the first of many places I would visit in my lifetime, but it was the first I remember. The smell of perm solution, hairspray, and cologne will never leave my memories. The little shop was at the corner of James and Livingston in Columbus, Ohio. The bizarre thing is that ten years later, I would take dance lessons in that same building—and the smells were all there. Maybe they were in my memories, or perhaps they were permanently in the walls and floors. I know they were there and probably would still be there if the building was.
We lived on James Road, so Mom would walk with me in a stroller with neatly applied lipstick (No, Mom never left the house without lipstick), a matching outfit, shoes, and purse, just smiling away at everyone. When we entered BJ's Beauty Parlor, all who were there made huge, MASSIVE greetings—women with big hair, curlers, and all waving cigarettes. I would sit in the corner under one of the enormous hair dryers playing with the curlers or coloring as mom got her hair done. Mom wasn't one of the smokers, but BJ was, and that would be another smell I would associate with mom's hair forever, as funny as it sounds. Once she was "all beautified," we'd walk home or to the filling station my bio father owned.
flashbak.com
If this whole story can get crazier… if we returned home after the beauty parlor, mom would pop into my Godparents, who lived right next door. These folks would end up being an even bigger connection to me years later via my husband, Frank. Yes, you guessed it...for another time.
I am not sure if the time at BJ's wasn't when I learned to read, draw, and navigate the world independently. I learned a lot from my mom during those visits. How to be beautiful, carry yourself as a lady, and self-care were just a few. Watching all the women talk, gossip, and bitch in this little beauty parlor, I believe, are today's modern-day therapists.
My mom's hair. Yep—about how I would put that statement—smells, sights, and textures would soon be the thing I most associated with Mom and unknowingly my future. I have never known a time she has done her own hair successfully — believe me, she tried. Thank goodness for the hoarder's level of hairspray at home. As she aged, beauty shop trips became more important for her sanity and mine and dads. BUT LET ME TELL YOU if someone did her hair in a way she disliked, they were over. Period. Mom isn't a vengeful woman or even a mean woman. She is a determined woman who has set standards for herself, me, but mostly her hair.
circa 2018 Thanksgiving Day
#hairspraylessons: stay as determined as a perm.