As I Was Saying

Something About Sally

By Alan Williamson

The sign in the window of the hair salon I jogged past exclaimed “Sally is Back!” 

I knew she’d be back, I thought smugly, though I had no actual knowledge of who Sally was, why she left, and why she decided to go back to where she once had been. Unfazed by such trivial details, I pictured her co-workers at the salon welcoming her return with open arms and warm words.

“Sally, oh my god, I can’t believe you’re back!”

“We missed you so much, Sally girl!”

“This place wasn’t as much fun without you, Sally! Not even close.”

“Thanks, you guys,” Sally might say softly, embarrassed by all the attention. “And sorry for saying ‘screw you, screw all of you’ when I left. I was really burnt out.”

“Not a problem, Sal,” a girl named Sharon might say. “We’ve all had our moments.”

“Yeah, like the time I told Mrs. Vander Blatner that Sally called her a bloated bag of toxic tofu,” a girl named Denise might chime in, secretly fishing for approval from the other girls.

“You said I said what?” Sally would lean in, straining to comprehend the slanderous portrayal of her as a person who would use words like “toxic tofu.”

“Then there was the time I snatched all your tips out of your purse when you went outside for a smoke,” a girl named Eileen might reminisce. “Eight or nine times.”

“You what?” Sally would gasp in disbelief, a sickening feeling of betrayal washing over her.

“Remember the time I wrote ‘Sally’s a sorry, trailer park loser in lipstick on the bathroom mirror,” a girl named Vickie might nostalgically recall.  

“You were the one who wrote that?” Sally would ask, feeling the hurt and shame well up inside her all over again.

“Yeah,” Vickie would confirm, matter-of-factly. “I was really, really burnt out and you pissed me off about something so I wrote what I felt.”

“You know what, Sharon, Denise, Eileen, and Vickie?” Sally might say angrily, jerking her purse up off a chair and storming toward the salon door. “Screw you, screw all of you!!”

“Witch!” the girls would undoubtedly shout back in unison as Sally rushed away weeping.

The next day as I jog by, the “Sally is Back!” sign is gone from the salon window, replaced with a far less intriguing “Help Wanted” sign.

I knew Sally was too good for that place, I think, as I glide on by. Way too good.