Learning to See the Beauty in Salons

Growing up, I never felt worthy of beauty salons. My fashionable sister attended one religiously every eight weeks; even our Lhasa apso had a standing appointment for a wash, cut and beribboning. But until I left for college, I stood in my mother's kitchen bimonthly and instructed her to chop two inches off my hair, the nondescript shade of which author Madeleine L'Engle captured perfectly in describing a character with "hair-colored hair."

I cut my own bangs, straight across. In Southern California's morning mist, they frizzed instantly. Lacking the enlightenment that comes from awareness of blow dryers and round brushes, I spent my adolescence sporting a fuzzy topknot like that of a neglected Shih Tzu.

In my 30s in Oregon, 800 miles away from Mom and her sewing shears, I searched for a beautician with whom, as the chick flicks promised, I could share my deepest secrets as I underwent miraculous transformations. Instead, I entrusted my coif to grim grandmothers pausing their gossip to deliver the "$10 special" and to sophisticated waifs who addressed me over throbbing techno music. "Cut it however," I'd mumble.

In short, I was not salon material.

Neither were my dogs. Together, we avoided groomers with the distaste we showed for ticks and standard poodles. After hikes, I bathed my mutts in the back yard with the hose, leaving them shivery and me a muddy mess.

When a friend told me about Suds 'Em Yourself, the ultra-hip dog salon in Eugene, I was skeptical. She touted such amenities as flea shampoo and six kinds of clippers to trim the dreadlocks on my dogs' butts.

And so we found ourselves in the pooch salon, surveying two rows of raised tubs. Owners soaped up retrievers, shelties and Weimaraners. In one corner, a bejeweled woman blow-dried her collie's golden mane.

We were ready to turn tail and run when the receptionist ushered us to two spacious tubs. She pointed out the herbal flea soap, no-tears shampoo, blow dryer, brushes, combs, ear cleanser, toenail clippers, mat clippers, cheese biscuits.

Cheese biscuits?

Instantly, my dogs were hooked.

For the next hour, I bathed and brushed, dried and clipped, interspersing my attentions with additional biscuits. My dogs emerged sated and fragrant, black hair silken and all their white parts white.

At home, they strutted into the living room, voguing like canine supermodels. But I stared at myself in the mirror, dismayed. My hair stood out in a tangle of fuzz. It hadn't been trimmed in months and my Beatles bowl cut had morphed into a sort of Cousin Itt shag. I mustered up my courage and called the day spa.