Haircut, challah, and preparing for Shabbat

Have you ever had one of those days? One of those crazy, hectic, insane days, where you just don’t function like your usual self and it’s on precisely such a day when you meet someone for the first time?

Granted, the new person I was meeting for the first time was not a suitor, potential employer or government official. It was a hairdresser, but still.

I had made the appointment the previous week. It was set for Friday evening at 6 p.m. Perfect timing for being ready just in time for Shabbat. And since the days are now long, I had also called my grandmother on Friday morning telling her I will stop by after work and visit with her for a bit on erev Shabbat in Brooklyn.

The day started off just right. I put up the challah dough to rise, and left for the day with the satisfying experience of kneading this special Sabbath bread with my very own hands. Soothing rhythms of dough, blessing and prayers — a harbinger of the approaching holiness of Shabbat. I had even experimented with a new whole wheat rye flour combination and began the day with anticipation and curiosity about how this new recipe would turn out.

The previous day I had received sad news that close friends of my family had lost their mother. By late Friday morning I finally reached one of the sisters by phone. As it turned out, although they are from Denver, they were going to be sitting shiva in New York through the weekend. I told her I would prepare Friday night Shabbat dinner for them.

She did mention they were bringing in Shabbat earlier than sundown, as is customary in some communities, and it’s true that they were going to be on the Upper East Side and I’m on the Upper West Side, and there was that haircut appointment…

I tried cancelling the appointment — it wasn’t an option. This was a place I was going to for the first time. Since I’ve moved to New York I’ve been popping in to the local neighbrohood salon — Dramatics, (it’s part of a chain) I finally decided it was time for a real haircut and found out from one of my classiest friends about this upscale place — I’ll call it Ray’s salon.

Changing plans on my Bubbie was not an option either. She was expecting me, and I look forward to our private little visits together where I surprise her with new fun gourmet foods and products I enjoy finding, which we very seriously and critically analyze and evaluate together. And anyway, I had already purchased Shabbat flowers for her.

So once I left my grandmother’s apartment, I began allocating the time in my head for each activity in order to make the day come together. I called an order into the supermarket so most of the ingredients would be ready and available at home by the time I reached Manhattan from Brooklyn. I figured if I really rushed and prepared an elegant, but basic, menu, it could all work out.

As I was braiding challah, roasting vegetables, marinating meat and simmering soup, I realized there was no way I was going to make it. I could not do it all on my own in time for Shabbos. So I called in my roomate Julie. I asked her to arrange for a car sevice to come and deliver the platters of food.
She would just need to load the car and give the driver a generous tip and explain the importance of the delivery and how vital it is that everything be taken care of before Shabbat.

I was a bit nervous to be using an unknown car service as a proxy in accomplishing this, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

Meanwhile, I was on my way walking to the hair salon — just a few blocks from where I live when Julie called to confirm it was all taken care of. We shmoozed for a few minutes and I expressed my frustration at not finding the salon. Surprised, Julie asked me whether I going to the usual Dramatics — what was there not to find? I told her I was going as a one time thing to this nice place named Ray’s. I thanked her for her help, wished her a good Shabbos and we hung up.

Finally I spotted Ray’s. It wasn’t on the side of the street I had expected it to be, and with the pressure of the day and all, I kept passing it by. It’s now 6:15 — my appointment was for 6 p.m. I walk through the glass door and am greeted with a lovely smile by a woman comfortably ensconced behind a white marble receptionist desk. In fact, the entire salon was white. Antique white mixed in with a more clean modern white, and translucent chandeliers suspended from the ceiling.

In her elegant and formal — yet playful sounding Australian accent, the receptionist explained she thought it was too late for the appointment by now.

I was disappointed, but understood, seeing that it was my fault, but asked if she could see what she could do.

While waiting I had a change of heart and was resigned to missing the appointment for the day, and decided on returning the following week. By the time the receptionist returned, however, she said they were trying to work things out. I explained it was OK because I would just return the following week.
Just then Ray herself entered the receptionist area and greeted me warmly with her Aussie twang, and said she would accommodate me.

So after what would normally be the insignificant matter of simply walking into a salon in time, taking a seat and then proceeding with the cut — had already begun on a bit of a different note. But now it was all behind me. I settled into a chair to wait my turn, and relax a bit.

The receptionist kindly offered me a drink of water in a delicately curved glass. I accepted and sipped a sip. Content to just wait my turn and be refreshed by the water, I was about to place the glass on the table near me when, somehow, I’m not even sure how — but I suppose the cumulative jitters of the day took their toll, the glass slipped out of my hand onto the glossy parquet floor and the water spilled eveywhere.

I was so embarassed. This was so not like me — but go and explain that to the receptionist and then you really sound wierd. “Umm hmm, yeah right,” she’d be thinking. So I just smiled and apologized and we mopped up the water together.

OOOOOOOOOOOk. Next.

A few minutes passed when Ray returned, and she proceeded to explain about giving me a dry cut, and the shape of my hair, and all sorts of important hair details I know nothing about. Ray and I chatted and had a nice click. She asked me who recommended her since her business runs entirely by word of mouth. I paused for a second because I didn’t want to embarass my classy friend who is a regular client, but I immediately answered Ray, wherupon she smiled in recognition, and really, everything was fine. I made a joke about what a crazy day it had been and even told her a bit about it as she was snipping away. With mission accomplished — my hair finally cut — she led me to the sink area for a shampoo.

I felt the nice comforting warmth of the water sliding down my hair and back of my neck, the gentle press of fingers massaging my scalp…

“Your roomate is on the line — it’s an emergency!” in formal high-pitched Australian accent, the receptionist ran in shouting toward me.

Murmurs of “Oh dear — it’s an emergency” “quick grab the towel — it’s an emergency” could be heard. With my hair dripping wet and a towel thrown on my head I put on a seriously concerned look.

Now I pretty much figured “the emergency” had to do with the Shabbat food delivery. And, trust me, I would have been really disappointed and frustrated if it hadn’t made it over. But I also knew it was not a real emergency, and that these really nice people wouldn’t understand the anxiety centering around getting things done with the looming pressure of Shabbat. So as I grabbed the phone, standing behind the receptionist white marble desk, looking out onto 84th Street, with towels plopped onto my head of dripping water, I did my best to match the concern of those around me by expressing it in my tone of voice.

I tried my best, but I mean, even with endeavoring to add a bit of a dramatic flair to my voice, how emergency-sounding do comments and questions such as “You mean the doorman won’t accept it?” “Did the driver try and bring the food in himself?” I suppose I could have been more calculating and chosen my words more carefully to include “delivery” instead of “food,” and lead them to at least think there was a baby delivery involved.

All I knew is that I wanted to get out of there — between being late, the spilled water, and now this “emergency.” By the time Ray was done blowdrying my hair, I couldn’t wait to leave. Finally. I paid. I tipped. I smiled. I left.

With still some time left before Shabbat I stopped off in the little market in my building to purchase some last minute ingredients before Shabbat to prepare a salad for lunch guests I was expecting. I had to accept the fact I wouldn’t know for sure whether the “food delivery” arrived safely to my friends until after Shabbat, since my friends had accepted an early Shabbos.

I got home, quickly whipped the apartment into shape and lit candles. Ah, the serenity of Shabbat. Ready to relax, I reached for my notebook that I like to review on Friday nights. Neatly and artistically, these notebooks of mine are part journal reflections, part Torah musings, part recipes and anything else from a poem to a letter to a black-and-white sketch. Whenever I finish one notebook, I start on a new one. And so by now, I have a collection of these notebooks that are close to my heart.

I couldn’t find it. I felt disoriented. I had just had the notebook! Over the years I lost a notebook only once — when I left it behind in a taxi. I figured I must have inadvertently left it at the market just a few minutes ago, and decided I would go in at five a.m. when the market opens to double check. Very early Shabbat morning I checked and was disappointed to find out the market knew nothing about it. I then realized, in my rush to straighten up before Shabbat I must have thrown the notebook out myself. I was sad, but it was a new notebook, so it was not yet filled. It could have been worse. And it is just a notebook after all. It just wasn’t meant to be. I consoled myself.

After sunset and Havdalah I eagerly went to check my phone messages to see whether the “food delivery” had arrived safely. Instead I heard a cheery Australian voice on the other end of the line, “Hi Tehilla, it’s Stacy from Ray’s hair salon, there is a notebook here with your name in it…”

And, if you must know, the “Shabbat food delivery” did make it over safely as well.