My mother hadn't been pleased, but I'd noted as the months passed that she seemed to be adapting to the new color, even mentioning it to her friends in a way suggesting that I wasn't, after all, shaming the Mann family with my capricious decision. Finally, in late January, I knew that my mother approved when she recommended that I go to her own salon, where, if I intended to perpetuate the color, at least, she said, I should have it done right.So there I sat in the shampoo chair a week later, having my head pummeled by a hairy Hungarian man named Istvan, who worked at the salon part-time and who told me of his love for watching Magnum, P.I. re-runs on cable. His heavily accented voice spoke loudly in my ear. “I go to Hawaii myself, someday, I tink,” he told me, his unruly eyebrows floating above me as he palmed my head like a basketball. Istvan was not particularly gentle, but I'm sure not one customer had the courage to tell Miss Angie.“It must be beautiful,” I murmured.“What?”
