Eat. Pray. Wait.

Slow traffic, lengthy voice mails and muttering library patrons regularly sweep my small amount of patience out the door. As the door slams shut I’m reminded yet again of the fourth Fruit of the Spirit: patience, or as some bible translations list it, long suffering. It’s uncomfortable to admit that I’m impatient. But worse to think that it may mean I need to suffer more to get over it.

A few weeks ago I had a hair appointment at a trendy beauty school in the suburbs that’s filled with young women and a few male students with unnatural hair colors and ever-changing hairstyles. Stacks of beauty and diet magazines subdue the waiting customers and the blasting sounds of blow dryers and high pitched chatter are constant. I go there to save money.

I checked in at the front counter at 8:30 a.m. and was informed that my student-in-training, Carly, would be with me shortly. A petite girl rounded the corner and quietly called my name. “Laur-A-lee?” She added the emphasis on the middle syllable like an unnecessary speed bump and stuck out a sweaty-palmed hand. “I’m Carly. Nice to meet you.” I gave her a firm handshake and smiled the most reassuring smile I could muster. She must be new, I thought.

Carly brought me to her station and started running her fingers through my hair, carefully looking at random strands closely. Tug, tug. She busily inspected, moving my hair from side to side, brushing it forwards and then brushing it back. “What are you here for today?” she asked. I told her I wanted a haircut and highlights. She nodded, pulled at a stray bobby pin and peered closely at my bangs. A few minutes later she went to find an instructor to okay the procedure.

Then she left in search of aprons. She went to the back of the building and returned to let me know there weren’t any clean ones. She ran her fingers through my hair, flipped through a nearby magazine and went back to check again. Still none. She stood in line to ask an instructor. After a few minutes, she went to triple check. She stopped by on her way back to the front desk to let me know. She’s thorough, I thought. This is not good.

I pulled out a book from my purse and checked my watch. Thirty minutes had passed since I first sat down. I reasoned that she’d probably make up the time with speedy hair coloring ability.

Aprons found, Carly went to work sectioning off my hair into tiny buns all over my head. She clipped the first one in place and painstakingly began sectioning off the next area. The square section looked small; she added more hair. She let the hair go, combed, and started again. Her comb dropped to the floor. She put the comb in the purple liquid on the counter. Swish, swish. Out. Back in again. Out again and back to sectioning. The first bun unraveled. After twenty minutes of sectioning, she’s ready to mix the color.

Another instructor came by to go over the details of the chemical solution to be applied to my head. I continue reading. The character, Liz, is studying at an ashram in India and is having difficulty staying awake during early morning, hours long meditations. I feel like I can relate.

After ninety minutes my head is covered in shiny silver foil and my legs and bottom are numb. A few students have since started and completed haircuts in the chairs surrounding Carly’s booth. Two peers and a teacher walk by offering Carly congratulatory remarks on how great her foils are looking. Book-companion Liz has overcome her inability to sit still and loves her introspective time in India. Wish I could say the same.

When I don’t think I can take another minute of sitting Carly exuberantly tells me that she’s . . . “Nearly half done!” I feel all patience drain from me. My bladder is nearing full and my blood sugar levels have plummeted. I ask her if she thinks it will be much longer. She offers to take me to the restroom.

An hour later and it’s time to take out the foils and wash out the color. This is usually my favorite part. But I’m antsy and ready to go home and eat lunch and I have to go to the bathroom again.

Carly leads me to the ‘blue room’. It’s dimly lit and filled with tall beds reminiscent of chiropractor’s tables. I lie on my back with my neck and head lowered into a sink. The ceiling is covered in mini lights to look like a night sky and I wonder if it’s anatomically, or maybe it’d be astrologically, correct. The room has a strict no-talking policy, and is instead filled with the sounds of music fit for a Japanese rock garden and the splashes and slaps of hair-washing water. My full bladder is not happy about this.

After administering two shampoos, there’s a small break and I wonder if Carly has left. Her hand touches my face and it’s then that I realize she’s going to give me a complimentary facial. Usually the student asks before entering the room but since she hadn’t I assumed that she and I thought the same thing: skip it and get to the haircut before this customer takes a run for it. I assumed wrong.

She starts by gently massaging my nose and forehead, then my chin and cheeks. Over and over she rubs. She puts a hot towel over my face and eyes, leaving only my nostrils exposed. My brain is too focused on needing a restroom to care. Towel removed she begins the process all over again: nose, forehead, chin, cheeks, nose, chin, forehead, nose. When I think she’s done, she starts again. I imagined what type of sandwich I would make when I got home and debated over turkey, ham or roast beef before settling on ham.

Back in the chair and up to hour five, my eyes are getting weary. Book-character Liz is nearing the end of her yearlong self-discovery; I could’ve been reading it real-time. I hear Carly exclaim over the beauty of the color of my hair and peers gather in close to check her handiwork. I smile politely and check my phone for messages. No emergency texts or voicemails unfortunately; I’ll have to stay for the haircut, too.

Carly works out the knots in my crumpled hair and once smooth she begins sectioning again. Little buns begin to take form on the side of my head. I wonder if there are cinnamon rolls in the freezer. Liz is enjoying Thai food with her new best Bali friend and her description is making my stomach grimace and growl.

One last instructor, hopefully, makes an appearance to discuss the surgery needed on my lengthy locks. Nothing special, I hear myself say, four inches off the bottom and a slight trim to the bangs. Carly nods and smiles, takes out two of the buns, combs my hair smooth and prepares to take a cut.

Ever so slowly the first and second cuts are made. Comb, comb. Third cut. Comb smooth again. I let out a short breath through my nose and check my phone again. “I just need to get an instructor to check my first cuts!” Carly smiles and leaves in search of a teacher. I check my watch, tap my foot and wait. Student and teacher arrive. Carly’s cuts look great. She slowly lets down another section of hair.

At six hours fifteen minutes, it’s time for the bangs to be trimmed. I tell Carly that I don’t think I’ll be needing my hair dried or styled today and she smiles and gets an instructor to help with the bangs. The instructor explains the different types of scissors and techniques that one is able to use when cutting bangs. She adjusts the chair and asks how I want them trimmed. She demonstrates the cut to Carly but doesn’t open or close the scissors. Job explained, she hands the comb and scissors to Carly. I pray neither item drops during the exchange. Fifteen minutes later, all is complete.

As I left I’m fairly certain it was Long Suffering that grabbed the salon door and hit me on my numb bottom on the way out. I know I left all Patience in a heap of hair under Carly’s chair.