It’s 20 degrees warmer in Boston than it is in San Francisco today. This is of course because I did not bring a coat to San Francisco. I’ve dragged my big bulky coat to the west coast every other time, and usually I don’t even end up wearing it. Today, I miss my coat. It’s about 45 degrees out, which is pretty chilly for daytime San Francisco in the spring. I had a hair appt. and doctor’s appt. today and Billy needed the car, so I took public transport. By the time I got home I was thoroughly chilled (wearing only a light jacket over my sweater) and had to make some hot chocolate.
My hair salon is always an interesting place. It’s a bit foofy for my tastes; a little too expensive and pretentious. However, T., the woman who cuts my hair, is awesome. I have tried going elsewhere and regretted it greatly. She does an awesome job. Recently she has hired an assistant, a British guy with a lot of tattoos and a name like Clive or Clyde or Henry or something. This means Clive gets me ready for T by putting on my smock and offering me magazines and water. Clive also washes my hair and blow dries it. T. just colors and cuts it. Then sits back to watch as he does the other stuff, or, if she’s busy, she can work on two customers at once. This whole scenario is vaguely annoying, as Clive is not as good at blow drying my hair as T., nor is he as good at washing it.
Anyway, Clive is washing my hair, and he says, “Hey, by the way, T. wanted me to tell you that the woman getting her hair cut next to you is Linda Ronstadt.”
“Really?” I don’t quite believe this. The woman sitting in the chair one over from T.’s station has short, gray hair and high cheekbones. She looks like a nice grandmotherly type. She’s wearing sweatpants.
So, when I get back to my chair, I eavesdrop on “Linda Ronstadt,” who tells her hairdresser (who is from Hong Kong and has no idea about Linda Ronstadt’s famousness, Clive told me) that she’s got three grandkids and her husband likes to cook and she’s just moved to the city from Novato in Marin. She says she’s 66 and she’s retired because all of the sudden she looked up and realized she’s old.
I try to get a look at her, because my image of Linda Ronstadt is a hippy-ish woman with long dark hair and a vaguely country twang. This grandmother does not have a country twang. She says she’s from NY but lived in Southern CA for 27 years. She says that she used to have really long hair, parted down the middle (“as was the style of the day”).
When I get home, I look up Linda Ronstadt online and all the bios I read say she’s 60, never married (though she adopted 2 kids) and lives in Tucson. The photos are mostly from a long time ago, and show a younger Linda Ronstadt, like the woman I remember from the albums. But I could see a resemblance to the woman I saw.
So I really don’t know what to think about the Linda Ronstadt sighting in the salon. Whether or not it really was Linda, I started thinking about Linda Ronstadt songs while Clive was drying my hair and now I have “When Will I Be Loved” stuck in my head.