| Mar. 4th, 2008 @ 08:39 am HEIDI! |
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I was 21. My boyfriend, his brother and I moved out of the Seyburn house, where they were 2 of my 12 male house mates, to the house behind the Kraut funeral home in Hamtramick. We turned the Kraut house into an art piece. By the time we finished painting and decorating the space, it looked like a cowboy on acid ran away from the circus and got lost in Turkey. I had also just disassembled one of the largest interactive installations of my career. The 6 months previous had been consumed by performance art, public ritual and an installation with occasionally scheduled free time spent going out on the “scene”. The installation was both alive and dead, recycling and re-birthing. Live and recorded images and sounds intertwined as participants strolled through the Michigan Gallery. It took months to create the installation and only days to disassemble.
Back then, when I completed an installation or a performance, I could take time afterward to just “veg out”. The atmosphere we created in the Kraut house was exactly what I needed to rest in. I was home listening to Robert Johnson 78’s when my boyfriends brother stormed in disturbing my bluesy, semi vegetative state with his working man woes. He was earning his way as a hair stylist and his salon was in some sort of a fix. His working man's panic was making me dizzy. I wanted him to slow down, "shhh get quiet" and melt into the atmosphere I’d created. Instead he was begging me to come in and play receptionist for a day at his trendy, expensive, salon known as "HEIDIS". "You're the only one I know with classic pieces in your wardrobe, just dress like an actress from the 40's or 50's.." He was in a pinch. After much convincing that it would be an “experience” I decided to pitch in. Spending the day with the mainstream world in a shopping center hair salon would be a performance and a social experiment. It was going to require a costume. Back then, my hair was 1/4 inch short, growing back from bald, I wore fishnets that were old and tattered, held up with garters, with high heeled combat boots, mini skirts, and a black bra showing through my shirt, under a leather jacket (somehow, I was magically immune to the brittle cold of Detroit winters). I did have pieces in my wardrobe that were classic: pencil skirts, black slacks, turtle necked little black dresses, and several Audrey Hepburn ensembles.
I channeled my mother the make-up artist and applied make up as she would- Viola! I was Chic/hip.
When I arrived at the salon a bleached blond, flamboyant, stressed out hair stylist threw a pen at me, handed me the phone and pushed me into the spot he had been occupying behind the desk, in front of a large desk sized calendar. He sighed in loudly, clutched his pearls and let out his breath as he exclaimed, "Oh! thank GOD you're here! This is not my job, I'm an artist, people are waiting for me!!!" and off he went. I started right away, no application, no interview, and only 20 seconds of training.
Half way through the day, a whirlwind of a woman made her entrance. She had straight, shoulder length black hair, bright red lipstick, sharp clothing & an Israeli accent she spoke succinctly with. She entered the Salon, stopped in her tracks, scanned the scenario, did a double take on me and announced in my direction, "YOU ARE MANAGEMENT MATERIAL".
I was startled, "Oh... uhh, no, no. I'm just pitching in for a friend.....just here today."
'OK, WE TALK IN A MOMENT" hand extended "I AM HEIDI! OF HEIDIS SALON" We shook hands and the whirlwind continued on her path.
Later, she came to the desk with one of the stylists who was in training. As that trainee took over my reception duty, and I was barely into my break from catty, hair styling, diva traffic control,
HEIDI! took me aside to ask me what changes I would make in this salon if it were mine?
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