Carrie giggled. "Tell her about Irene."

Cookie barked, "That idiot!" She turned to me. "She was our manicurist. This guy used to come in to have his nails done and he said he'd take her on a trip, take her out to dinner, all this crap. She goes out with him once and -- boom! He's gone. Doesn't ask her out again. She quits soon after that. Then he comes in here recently and asks, 'How's that Irish girl?' He says he had a good time with her. Took her out for dinner, and then he goes, 'Afterwards, she brought me back here.' He's pointing to my chair. 'She gave me a blow job right in this seat.'"

Carrie chuckled and Cookie rolled her eyes.

"And then," Cookie continued, "there was the guy who used to rub my ass while I was working on his hairpiece."

"Did you slap him?" I asked.

"Ah, no! I let'm." She shook her head. "The poor guy was 80 or something. He was so cute! He lived with his mother. I could have gotten upset, but oh, it just gave him such a thrill. And I didn't really care, he just sort of had his hands on me. It wasn't a big deal."

"That happened to me too, with Mr. Watson," said Carrie, and Cookie nodded. "I was shampooing him, and he started putting his hand on my butt. I said, 'You know, I don't really like that, Mr. Watson.' He says, 'Well, Patty' -- that's our shampooist from about five years ago -- 'used to let me do it.' And I said, 'Well, I'm not Patty.' So he stopped. I could never figure out why Patty used to have so much money. Then she told me that she'd go hang out in bars in the Financial District and slip her card into men's pockets -- you know, put her hand right down the front of their trousers -- and say, 'Come and let us cut your hair.'"

"Patty really believed in marketing herself," Cookie said dryly. Both women chortled, and Carrie leaned over to press the Brew button on the coffee machine.

"Does Mr. Watson still come here?"

"Oh, sure," Carrie said, "he's been coming for 10 years or so. His son is a client now, too."

"We pretty much love all our guys," Cookie said.

As if on cue, a man in a wrinkled suit and a worried expression suddenly opened the door. "Mr. Robertson!" Cookie shrieked. "Robb-ey! Come over here. I've been looking forward to this all day. Is that a tan I see?" She grabbed his hand and led him across the room to the sink as I stood up and gathered my things.

"I've been in Bermuda with my wife and daughter and son-in-law," I heard Mr. Robertson say as I waved to Carrie and left them to their version of BoysTown. "It was, oh, not so great. I don't know what I think about that son-in-law."

"I'm glad you're back," Cookie shouted.

"Oh, so am I," he said, with great relief. "You have no idea."
SALON | Aug. 5, 1998

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