I got the Royal Roman treatment at Venus the Salon at Caesar’s Palace. You know how it is, you’re reading the list of treatments and you want the most expensive one. After exactly six minutes you start to accept that you can only afford a manicure, but you keep looking at five-hour seven-layer wrap me up in something that sounds like last week’s Starbuck’s special mated with Organic Farming’s soil of the month.
Then you rationalize the situation. If I spend half of next month’s rent I’ll look like a million bucks. And everybody knows that the more you look like Lady Luck, the more she’ll bless you at the tables. Because she is vain. Oh she is vain.
As I was mentally upgrading my manicure to a bang trim, my grandmother came in and told me to get my hair cut.
“No, I couldn’t. They’re way too expensive.”
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“That’s ok,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Ok,” I said to the receptionist. “Do you have time for a wash, cut, and style tomorrow morning? With highlights?”
Of course they did, but just barely. Maria treated me like a client and networked me around the salon as I talked about my impending move. On top of all the personal attention, I actually looked fabulous. Price tag? $250. By far the most expensive hair treatment I’d ever received. But that’s Vegas, Baby. Just sign it over to the room and hope that the comps pick it up, or that Grandpa wins big enough not to care when he sees the bill. As I handed over cash for a tip, I thought that this would be the kind of treat that wouldn’t come around again until I wrote a bestseller. And I believed that until the compliments started rolling in. Now, I’m saving up for my second best haircut ever. Maria, darling, are you free in May?