“Do you have a tattoo?” the hair stylist, Jennifer, asked me. Was she crazy? She was 26, with blue eyes and dark hair falling in waves down her back. And she had a delicate tattoo starting at the nape of her neck and disappearing down the front of her black t-strap dress.

I’d never been asked that before. My generation didn’t get tattoos, I said, although I’d known one woman and one man who did, and regretted it.

I was not in Kansas anymore. I was in a balayage salon. I’d seen signs around town for “balayage,” but thought it was something like the Brazilian hair straightening treatment that had come and gone.

Looking around the salon, I figured I was at least 30 years older than everyone else. I’d come there because I couldn’t stand my hair any longer. I realize, of course, that in these times, bad hair is a petty problem.

Commentators have compared the present to1968.

Our most inspiring leaders—Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy—were assassinated in quick succession; in Vietnam, U.S. troops massacred children and unarmed villagers in Mylai; and in Chicago, police cracked heads and broke limbs of young demonstrators while Democrats held their convention fortified behind barbed wire. There was also a pandemic; the H3N2 virus killed more than 100,000 Americans and a million worldwide.

I was a fledgling reporter then, in the thick of it. I remember the horror, the accelerating nightmare, but what’s happening today feels even more like Armageddon.

I needed some petty relief. “A little taste of normal,” as my ukulele teacher put it. My hair hadn’t been touched—cut, colored, or styled–since January. It looked like dull straw, and there were two inches of gray at the roots. I had to avert my eyes when I walked past a mirror. I remember a friend, a meditation teacher, telling me that after a three-month retreat, “Everyone’s roots were showing.” And one of the first things they did was head for the hairdresser.

For 15 years I’ve been going to the same hair stylist, but when I called to see when she might be returning to work, she said she was moving her practice to a town that’s 20 miles away. Damn. I take Uber or Lyft these days, so that would mean $60 in transportation costs every time I wanted a trim.

More important, I don’t like to change. Glasses, brand of underpants, dentists. If I like something, I resist trying anything else. Keeps life simpler. But when forced to change, I almost always end up preferring the new item or person. So, I thought, maybe it would be good to have a new hair stylist.

As it happens, there’s a salon across the street from me, Paul Morrison Colours. I thought it was a haughty, high-end color salon. (note the “u” in “colour”) But I saw that the front door was open, and inside, stylists were placed six feet apart and everybody wore masks. I called and made an appointment. It would cost almost twice what I’d been paying, but hell, all I had to do was walk across the street.

The receptionist stuck a thermometer in my ear, it beeped, and she cooed, “Normal.”  When I was seated, Jennifer ran her hands through my hair, asked what products my old stylist had used, and set to work.

For 15 years, I’d watched my former stylist paint brown dye on sections of hair at the root line to cover the gray. Then she’d reach for a square of aluminum foil, place a few strands on the foil and paint it with bleach or a darker dye to create highlights and lowlights. Then I’d sit under a hair dryer until the colors had “taken” and could be rinsed out.

Not here. There were no foil squares at Jennifer’s station. After touching up the roots, she lifted strands of hair and painted them by hand. I was alarmed: it looked like bright white streaks among the brown.

Jennifer assured me it wouldn’t look white when she was finished.

Jennifer explained that with balayage, you could create more dimension and design. “It’s more an art form,” she said. “Rather than coloring every streak the same way with foils, you decide where you’ll put your streaks, how wide, how bright, and what pattern you want. It takes experience and skill.”

Behind us, the owner of the salon was putting big sheets of cellophane over sections of his client’s hair to enclose the painted streaks and prevent them from “bleeding.” He was also building a two-foot long container of foil for two of the front sections, so they’d be “hotter” than the back. The client looked like a space-bot, with droopy silver ears.

Bye bye foils. They’re now old school. Balayage had begun in Paris in the 70’s, but it’s only in recent years that it’s gone mainstream here.

When Jennifer finished painting, she did not use a blow dryer because of the concern that if any germs were on the premises, the dryer would blow them all around. So she used styling cream (which I was cajoled into buying), and a curling iron, making the hair look smooth and wonderful.

On my way out, I noticed a photo backdrop with lights, like the walls that actresses pose in

front of at premiers and fundraisers. But instead of “Disney” or the name of the charity all over the backdrop, it said the name of the salon. With facemask still in place, I had photos taken in front of the wall, then outside.

Now it’s back to finding ways I can contribute to healing the virus that threatens our health and the racial injustices that could tear apart our democracy. On June 2, the entertainment industry stopped conducting business for the day, to reflect and take action in support of the movement called The Show Must be Paused.I’ve been brainstorming with others about how to help people who’re in trouble, like our house cleaners, many of whom are here illegally, who’ve lost their ability to work in clients’ homes and have no income to feed their children.

But when I walk past the mirror (at least for now)… I smile.

YOUR COMMENTS?

If you’re in Boulder and would like help cleaning your home, I can recommend someone who’s been helping me for 18 years. She cleans with a mask and gloves, and disinfects all surfaces she’s touched before leaving. Email  leap@saradavidson.com.

For an amusing break, here’s a short film (7 min) that’s provocative and apt, “Face to Face Time” —selected for the Cannes Film Festival. Let me know if you get the climax. I missed it.