I frequent a neighborhood beauty salon for a wash and blow dry. And occasionally for a cut, color and keratin treatment. It is my treat to myself and, because I have never been good at taming my ​“mind of its own” hair. The woman who owns and runs it with her sisters, instinctively knows that I have limited patience for beauty rituals, don’t want too much product on my hair and want to make sure I leave setting up my next appointment. I feel cared for and know my image will be protected.

What they do not know about me is how powerfully tied to them I feel. 

They are four sisters, immigrants, who have made their way here from Albania, with the hope of a better life for themselves and family. The way they work is like watching a beautiful orchestrated dance, moving from sink to station, effortlessly handing each other a brush, scissors or curling iron as needed without a word spoken; like athletes, knowing when to pass the ball. Their shop is their home base. It is also a hub for recommendations of all kinds — medical, specialists, babysitting or a good bagel. 

In many ways, their beauty salon is not much different than my family’s bakery shop, literally, the gluten, that kept us together, each with our role to play. It was our compass, training us to take care of people, to listen and work out issues because we had to pay the rent and represent a hard fought flight to freedom. Like the sisterhood at the beauty shop, we were three sisters plus extended family, nephews, a niece, a beloved brother-in-law and customers that created a community of support where one could jump in as needed. 

Conflicts and jealousies always erupted at the bakery, just the way they did anywhere the family gathered, but somehow the mission to serve the customers with good well-made bread was bigger than our pettiness.

At the bakery, we measured our success by repeat customers. And for sure, I will be back for a wash and blow dry with the four sisters.