Sunday, July 09, 2006

On Wanting

I got my haircut on friday at a new salon. Cheaper than my regular guy, Raphael at John Sahag. But I’d recently lost the family discount I’d previously been getting and, well, without that. It’s just a no-go.

I had a coupon for the new place: free manicure with cut. So.

And as I was getting my cuticles trimmed—one hand nestled in the woman’s palm, the other wading in warm sudsy water—I thought how if I had enough money I’d get my nails done every week. And maybe a pedicure too while I was at it. (There’s a place on Court Street that offers a mani-pedi deal for $25.) That would be cool. Dip my toes in warm water every week. A little foot massage. And they have those vibrating chair thingys. That would be nice. And once I started thinking about the massage chair I thought about how nice a real massage would be. Every week. After yoga on Sunday mornings. And a facial. I’ve always wanted to get a full hour facial. For a second as I watched the woman deftly polish my left thumb I saw myself living this wish-fulfilled life. Carefully coiffed and serene, I’d shine like a lovingly polished stone. But. There was more. I could want more. Clothes. Jewelry. Make-up. And someone that polished, that elegant would naturally travel to France on vacation, wouldn’t she? Where she’d probably buy more clothes. Fashionable. Stylish. Clothes. With sandals.

And then, as she laid my left hand down on the towel and lifted the right I understood something I’d never really grasped before, other than in an entirely intellectual way. There could be no end to the things I could want. Each new acquisition could eventually lead to more: more objects and services and experiences. And when I have a child I’d want things for her too. Eventually she’d start to want. An endless cycle of wanting and getting and wanting again.


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9:32 AM  

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