Patience, Not My Middle Name

Beauty shop smells insult my nose. The bleach, the lifters, the perm solution. They all smell bad. I could not work here for two seconds. A child behind me is playing a video game. The volume is up, in my ear. Bing. Ring. Ding. Sing. Ming. Bing. Bing. Ring. It is driving me crazy. I do not say anything, because I know how Mamas are. I finally put my hands over my ears. Nothing happens. No clue whose child this is, he and I are the only ones waiting. Except a man, who is too old to be with either of us. The man gets taken back, shampooed, hair cut. I've been here an hour now. Bing. Ring. Ding. Sing. Ming. Bing. Bing. Ring. Should I walk out? I'm feeling angry. "I cannot wait any longer," I hear myself yelling. I see myself slamming the door. Never to return. I see this in my mind six or seven times in the next twenty-three minutes. Bing. Ring. Ding. Sing. Ming. Bing. Bing. Ring. I want to yell at the child, "Turn the volume down!" Which mother would turn? Most of the women in here have tattoos. He has approached no one yet; no idea whether he even has a mother. I cannot think of anything but how I will huff out of here. The man hops out of the chair. His hairdresser takes his money. I wait for her to call my name. I am perched on the end of my chair. She takes a broom and cleans the floor of her station. I try to be patient. She starts cleaning all of the stations, making me angry now. Out of the nine people who were sitting here, I'm the only one left. I see myself slamming the door, after angry yelling. Another woman finishes, takes money. Good, I think. Her hair looks better than the other woman's anyway. I'd rather have her. She motions to a woman who has been sleeping under the dryer the whole time I've been here. It feels like I've been here for two days. I feel heat rising in my cheeks. I am ready to blow. Two more people finish. Money is taken. Two beauticians walk outside. I see cigarettes light up before they close the door. I know my face is blood-red now. Ten minutes later a woman with the ugliest colored hair gives them money. Two more children are here now. So there are three phone games being played. Bing. Zing. Tring. Ling. Wing. Ming. Hing. Zing. I am plotting murders now. A beautician calls my name. I jump up and run toward her. "Thank you for being so patient," she tells me. Apparently she has no idea how close she came to death.