It is me time, pure and simple. From the moment I walk through the door and have my coat taken off me, to the moment I step back out into the street, confidence refreshed. I am nobody’s wife, I am nobody’s daughter. I sit, ensconced in the heat of the salon, reading a fashion magazine until my stylist is ready for me. Then we talk about this and that, as much as we need to talk. Some days it’s more. Other days it’s less. She asks me what I want doing this time. I tell her. She does it, starting with the dyeing of my roots, which leads to half an hour of solitude, alone with another fashion magazine, or perhaps something that reveals all about celebrities. Then there is the washing of the hair. Some juniors are better than others. Today I had one who, if I wanted to be kind, I would describe as vigorous. Rough, if kindness didn’t bother me. Sometimes I almost fall asleep, it’s so relaxing, with the warm water and the massaging hands. Not today. Then we move to the final stage: the cutting of the hair. The main event. The point of restoration.