Almost always, there was snow for Christmas in Des Plaines, Ill., where I grew up in the early 1960s.
After Thanksgiving, I would wait for the snow to come for it to really feel like Christmas time. Snow brought the full expression of Christmas excitement. It shimmered, silently floated upon icy air, blanketed the houses and bushes and capped the fence posts on my walk home. The snow hid the dirty streets and cracked sidewalk, covered the decaying leaves and lit delicately upon the branches of trees.
I was 14 years old, an awkward freshman in high school, with freckles and braces. I wondered how I could possibly make enough money to buy some nice Christmas presents for my mom and dad, my sister and my three brothers.
I noticed a sign in the window of Nordic’s Beauty Shop that read “Shampoo Girl Wanted.” I walked in, and the jangle of bells above the door announced my arrival. Nordic, a small elf-like man, looked up from skillfully styling an older woman’s white hair. He looked over at me and cheerfully said, “You might be here about the shampoo girl position. Am I right?”
I nodded.
“Well, we will try you out. Be here tomorrow after school and we’ll get you started,” he said.
I don’t remember any formalities or paper to sign. I just showed up the next afternoon after school and Nordic began to teach me beauty shop etiquette and the process of shampooing ladies’ hair. I agreed to the hourly wage of fifty cents an hour plus tips (usually a quarter). I worked Thursdays and Fridays after school and 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Saturdays.
In the first few weeks, business was slow. But when we got closer to the holidays, it picked up and the tips got better. I watched Nordic give permanents and cut and color hair as I shampooed in the back room, wrapping a black plastic bib around each lady’s neck, adjusting the temperature of the water to be comfortable and being very careful not to spray water in the customer’s faces. I prided myself on giving a nice scalp massage.
As I got the hang of it, and shampooed with confidence, I’d sometimes get a two- or even three-quarter tip. Between customers I read magazines and drank the free coffee from Nordic’s coffee maker, sweetening with ample Cremora.
It was finally quitting time on the day before Christmas Eve. I had worked over a month and was wondering when I would be getting paid. I had my coat on to go home.
Nordic wished me “happy holidays” and handed me a bulky envelope. I thanked him, stuffed it into my coat pocket, and turned to open the shop door.
A gust of frigid winter air engulfed me. And it was snowing! Tears came to my eyes to find 2 or 3 inches of snow had already blanketed the parking lot. I hustled along, feeling a sense of importance as a real working girl, my first payday in my pocket.
I waited until I was a few blocks from the shop, under a corner streetlight, to wrench the envelope out of my coat pocket. Nervously, I slipped my finger under the envelope flap and tore it open. Snowflakes lighted softly on my eyelashes as I stared onto the thick pack of wrinkled $1 bills. I fingered each one and counted 25. The snow seemed to twinkle extra brightly under the streetlights.
Christmas was almost here, and I was rich!
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