Too Good to be True

There’s one thing my Dad taught me that normally I subscribe to with blind faith. He said if it’s too good to be true, it probably is. When traipsing across the other side of the planet, I may have found myself this week blinded by the billboards of Times Square and in less than ten minutes had handed over $45 worth of green for two things that were simply that. Just too good to be true.

I avoid hawkers like the plague. They are scary and pushy but more to the point I don’t trust myself to say no to any type of sob story, friendly face, dishevelled or down and out salesman. I am every salesmen’s dream. Tell me I need it and normally I will spend it. A long time ago, I can’t have been very old, I was into dolphins. (It was the 90s – everybody was into dolphins.) This man in a wheelchair was selling hand carved dolphins. I wanted one. I wanted one badly, however my mum was very quick to point out that it wasn’t the dolphin I wanted but that my heart strings were torn by the old man in the wheelchair selling a minuscule balsa wood dolphin for $4. Over the years, it has developed from a primitive form of pity to what I hope now is compassion. But since that $4 dolphin, Dad’s saying haunts my conscious when someone in the street tries to sell me something.

When this woman approached me yesterday, I could hear Dad. I even said to one of the hot girls that this doesn’t sound right. The words ‘If it’s too good to be true, it probably is,’ even came out of my mouth. But I was on holidays. I was in New York. Maybe it wasn’t and maybe, just maybe, this would be one of those adventures you tell people about later.

For $35 we would receive twelve services at a fifth avenue salon. (I know right, I should have listened to myself.) She said that would include all services, registration (for what I don’t know) and our tips to the therapists. SWEET. I sign up. We ring and make an appointment and they can only fit in our hair services the next day and we would need to arrange an appointment for the day after to do the others. The woman who sold us the package jumps on the phone and finalises our appointments and ensures we can all go together. Three of the seven of us buy the package. Two out of the three of us actually make the appointment.

After being caught downtown in the rain, we arrive at the salon fifteen minutes late. There was no cab to be found and we fight the subway and do a fast paced trek three blocks to find it. We scan the shops looking for this fancy salon and find nothing but a door with the number 385. No signage, no advertising. “Maybe it’s really exclusive” says hot girl 2. I smile sceptically and raise my eyebrows. My cynical nature kicks in and I laugh. “I doubt it lady, but maybe, just maybe.” We ring the doorbell and we are buzzed into the once gold corridor and head to the lift.

The elevator opens onto a salon floor. There are people everywhere. There are two women perched on stools behind the counter and the waiting room chairs are filled with, you guessed it, people in shorts and sneakers, carrying backpacks. Tourists. All of them. The women in front chat inanely and flick their nails and think very little at our obvious lack of solvency. We have to fill in a registration card and the woman says that will be $10. Warning bell number 34. “We’ve already paid the $10 registration,” I say. She says we have to pay it there and there is no way that the representative collected the registration fee. “I am not lying.” I say. “The woman collected it yesterday and said we would just have to show up today.” We take a seat while the woman calls the rep. She leaves a message saying there are two more girls here that say she has collected the registration fee. Same situation as yesterday. We look at each other and sigh. We’ve already invested $35 – leaving now would mean we forfeit that as well. We pay the $10.

A frenchman in his 40s collects me from the waiting room. His name is Abel and he is not gay. He squeezes my arm on the way to his chair and asks me to sit in his office. He talks about my hair and says it doesn’t need much. He says I need some weight out of the back and my ‘fluffy’ bits off the side. All of which I agree with. I start to get comfortable. Maybe this will turn out alright. He hasn’t tried to sell me anything! And then it begins. He talks about how flat my hair is and his sell is good. He talks about reflecting light, he talks about sun kisses and he touches me a lot. His french accent continues to lull me into a false sense of security but I don’t smile. My arms are folded and he can tell I am not buying it. I make the usual excuses, I am travelling, I don’t have any money, I agree with you but I’ll look into it when I get home, no one will care in the mountains of Mexico.

Finally he lets go. “Fine then,” and with a huff and a final flick of my hair he moves me to the basin. He haphazardly washes my hair and moves me back to the chair. Giving up, he looks at me again. “Such a shame, such a beautiful face.” I tell Abel to ease up and let it go. “Just let me make you more beautiful, if you don’t like it, don’t pay. I will do it for free. I want to see you radiant.” I know it’s a sell but I can’t take it anymore. He may as well be in a wheelchair and armless. I haggle the price down to about 30% of his original and he says he doesn’t care, he is only here to make me ‘new’.

I am sceptical but Abel’s demeanour changes immediately. He is friendly, chatty and ridiculously over the top flirty. He starts by going on about how much he loves curvy girls. Big girls, real girls. On and on. I struggle to hold back the spit fire that is forming on the end of my tongue. Why do men who think they like big girls tell them that? Surely they know that by saying that phrase out loud we are immediately lost to them. No woman, wants to hear that they are a one of those big girls. We know it, they know it – everyone knows it. NOONE wants to hear it. Especially not us. It begins as a sales pitch. He already has my money so I ask him why he’s bothering. He laughs and blames my Aussie heritage. “Silly Aussie girls,” he says. He wants to go out. He wants to go dancing. He wants to take me home. He tells some story about how Aussie girl’s don’t know how to be wooed. The fact he uses the word wooed belies the fact that he could be older than my dad and that this isn’t the first time he’s squeezed a customer.

A forty something long haired, greasy frenchman was able to fleece me of my money, insult me, compliment me and ask me out in under an hour. I roll my eyes at the typical turn of events and can hear my Dad say ‘I told you so’ in my ears. Abel grabs my hand and stands in the middle of the salon holding my hand. When do you leave? When will you come back? Why won’t you come with me now? He stands us in front of the mirror and says “See, look at how good of a couple we make?” I laugh half-heartedly and still Abel holds my hand and leads me to the foyer. He again squeezes my arm and hand and says “at least I was allowed to make you beautiful.”

I move aside and hand my cash to the lady with the nails at the front counter. Abel smiles and winks at me and says don’t forget to come back before you go. I give him his obligatory tip and move quickly to the white leather couch. One of the hot girls is still in the chair and I check with her before leaving. On my way past, Abel again squeezes my hand and says “Such a shame.” I smile and make my way to the elevator. My hair cut has cost me just as much as does at home in total and I am furious to admit that he was right. The highlights are great and they match in with what he calls my ‘platinum patch’ (for those of you who haven’t seen my hair undied – that is most of you for a very long time, I have a small patch on the top of my forehead where it’s grey. Just like Pat Rafter’s patch only smaller) and just like he promised, I don’t look like a lesbian.

I walk away from the building not quite knowing what just happened. I realise that I will never meet Abel again, and I am more than ok with that. Regardless of whether his flattery was genuine or not, it was off-putting. I’ve been learning how to say ‘thank you’ when people give me compliments but very rarely are they laid on that thick and by men. Albeit Abel was a forty-five year old hairdresser, but I get to choose how that day will playback in my head. In my memory I can make him the hottest 45 year old ever, wash his hair, get rid of his pot belly and even make him Italian, but someone should really tell him that if he does like ‘curvy’ girls, he should probably give us a cupcake rather than call us ‘curvy’ or ‘big’.

The verdict is still out on the other ‘too good to be true’ event. Comedy night filmed by Comedy Central with comedians who’ve had a minimum of five television/film credits for $10 a ticket. Again, sounds too good to be true. But there will hopefully be no frenchmen, no shampoo and in a club – I can walk out the door without an armless man in a wheelchair trying to sell me something. Hopefully. But in New York you never know.