Salon

The street was charming, lined with boutiques and small art galleries, interspersed with a teashop, an artisanal cheese market, and a store that specialized in lifelike dolls. Meg lingered by the window, intrigued by the dolls, which were all male figures,  and dressed in the style of traditional men’s professions. There was a cowboy, a construction worker, a businessman in an impeccable tiny suit with an intricately detailed briefcase, monogrammed in an impossibly small text. Meg wondered if one could buy just one of the men, or if they had to be a set. And how would one display them? She thought fleetingly of voodoo dolls, and then realized she had better hurry to her appointment. 

The salon always smelled so good, a pleasant mix of rosemary and mint. The building was from the 1850’s with a high ceiling made of battered tin, exposed brick walls, and wooden beams. There were huge floral paintings mounted halfway to the ceiling, which were flanked by long mirrors in thick black frames. Men and women, mostly women, were seated in front of each mirror while soothing music played, competing with the distant sound of babbling water emanating from a small interior fountain. A touch of boho chic, a whisper of ancient Rome, a place devoted to the pursuit of beauty.