Sylvia

From left to right: Myself, John, and Sylvia

Sylvia had been a client of mine for 41 years. Sylvia was special! So much so, that most of my clients knew her or at least knew of her. If I made a move, most of my clients were more concerned about whether it was convenient for Sylvia than for themselves. She had a following, a fan club. Whatever it was, she was famous among my clientele. People loved to talk to her. She made everyone feel special, loved and happy. She always commented on women's clothes, hair or makeup, and especially on their breasts, if they had nice ones. She loved breasts! She was never afraid to fondle another woman's breasts. She would sort of ask first before squeezing, but not really wait for a response, as she might get a no! Not what she wanted to hear. I mean, she would be gentle (after all, being a woman she knew how to fondle a breast). So, she would ask, "Mind if I touch them?” and before the word 'touch' crossed her lips, her hands were all over them. No one seemed to mind. After all, it was Sylvia!

The first time I met Sylvia, I was working as style director at Saks Fifth Avenue Beauty Salon in Bala Cynwyd, PA. There was a smart looking woman having a manicure in a hair drying chair near me, and she summoned me with her crooked finger. Usually, I would reject this kind of demand, but something about this woman made me respond. I sat in the dryer chair next to hers and she said, "I'm Sylvia, and I'm wearing a hairpiece. Do you think that you can do this? Elliot does my hair." (Elliot was a well respected hair stylist in the Main Line area of PA at that time). I said, "Of course!" so she booked an appointment with me the next week, and the rest was history, as they say.

Sylvia never missed a week, mostly because she was in need of me more than any other woman that I did, due to her extremely thin hair. She would say, “It's a curse!" But then she would say, "What can I do?" She never accepted it, but she made the best of it.

I remember one time when I had opened my salon in Center City, Philly, Sylvia was afraid to drive on the expressway (can't blame her, as it is a little scary). Her brother would bring her for her appointments. One day, when she was ready to leave, my assistant came over to her, kneeled down and whispered, "Sylvia, your driver is here." Her response was, "Say it louder!"

She was like a Jewish mother to me, always proud of my achievements, but they were never quite good enough! After all, Allen Gold had a bigger salon than I did! Not good enough! "You should have been rich by now! Why do you have to travel and do the things you do? Why don't you save your money?” She truly loved me, as I did her. I wasn't blessed with the most loving and caring mother (years on a psychiatrist's couch, and stories for another time), but I was blessed with Sylvia!

She had two hair pieces at all times. One that was on her head and one that was in the salon to be groomed for the next Saturday morning when she arrived. My protégés' were all trained on Sylvia's hair pieces. One time, one of my assistants washed the hair piece that she would be wearing that week and wrapped it in a towel. The towel got picked up, thrown into the washer, and need I say what it looked like when the cycle was over. We spent hours combing out the mats. But we never told Sylvia. She just thought that that hair piece seemed a “little dry” for a few weeks (it took a few times to condition it back into shape).

Her 90th birthday was a blast. Everyone wanted to roast Sylvia! And roast they did. But the overall consensus amongst the guests was that Sylvia was unconditionally loving. She was going blind by then (macular degeneration), but you would never know it! I think I was doing her makeup when she came in every Saturday by that time. She would not wash her face till Tuesday or Wednesday just so she could stay looking good. Shortly after that, Sylvia would grasp for words. She seemed unable to finish sentences, or she'd get lost in a thought. Since she couldn't see when someone would say hello to her, she would summon me to come closer with that very same finger that she used the day we met. I would kneel down, and she would whisper, "Who's that?" being sure to say hello and to make sure that no one really knew how bad her eyesight was.

Then, there were caretakers. They would bring and take her. Some kind and good, and some that left her to us and had a cell phone in their ear the whole time they were there. One time, one with a cell phone brought her in, and I noticed that Sylvia's shoes were on the wrong feet. It pissed me off so bad that I called Linda, her daughter, and vowed to report anything to Linda that I didn't like. We finally got her three wonderful women that cared for her and truly loved her as she did them.

Last October, was the last time I saw Sylvia. She stopped coming. I guessed it either didn't matter to her anymore, or it was just too difficult. In November, I called her and she was as cordial as could be, but I knew that she really didn't know who I was. I would call a few more times, not to talk to her, but to Vanessa, one of her caretakers that had worked for us, just to find out how she was doing. Her spirits were good always, even if her health wasn't. I made arrangements to pay her a visit one Thursday. Figured I'd bring lunch. I called Vanessa to find out what time would be best, and she told me that Sylvia had had a bad night, and she didn't think that it would be a good time for me to come. Even though I had cleared my day, I understood.

I was sitting in a box at the Devon Horse Show this past Memorial Day and realized that I had a message. I played it back and only heard, "Linda," and, "Mother died," and knew what I was going to hear when I could listen to the whole message. I wasn't surprised. I was glad for Sylvia that it was over for her. I knew more then anything Sylvia's dignity was the thing that she cherished most after her kids, grandkids, great-grandkids and of course, me. That's why it was ok for her to stop getting her hair done. Losing her dignity was just unacceptable! Eyesight was one thing. But one's dignity? Not!!!!! Even though I had lost Sylvia in October, I am still saddened. After all, I did love her unconditionally!

One time, when "cell phone care taker" was caring for Sylvia, John and I were afraid that she wasn't eating properly and decided to bring her dinner. We arrived, Sylvia came out from her bedroom wearing a velour sweatsuit. She had put rollers in her hair. She propped herself on the edge of the couch with her back as straight as it could be and entertained us until we left. It was painful to watch her try to remember what she was trying to say, but she never let down her guard! She never lost her dignity! She was ninety four.

I love you Sylvia, and always will! XOXO