We already know about the times I ran.
And the time I got caught.
This is about the time I didn’t run.
The time I made the appointment, showed up, and accidentally changed my life.
It was sometime around 2007 when I got my first perm. My roommate Kim and I were still exploring New Jersey. We had lived there for a few years by then, but there was still so much of the state left to discover.
At the time, we were making frequent trips between Vineland and Browns Mills because Kim had suffered a heart attack and was being treated at Deborah Heart and Lung Center.
One thing I remember vividly from those drives was getting stopped by the commuter train in Hammonton. Every so often, while waiting for the train to pass, I’d look over and see a salon through a giant front window.
One day I saw a woman getting a perm.
I remember locking eyes with the stylist for just a second before she waved politely.
That moment stayed with me.
Because salons always felt like forbidden spaces to me.
Not forbidden in any official sense. Nobody had put up a sign saying I couldn’t enter. But when you grow up carrying “boy armor” around with you, there are spaces that feel off limits anyway. Spaces that seem reserved for other people. Better people. Safer people. Real women.
At that point in my life, I was out online and to a few close friends like Kim and Bill, but not to the world. Most of the time I still hid behind hoodies, oversized clothes, and careful behavior. But something about that salon window brought the feeling back again.
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I wanted closer to that world.
Closer to myself.
For a while, one of the ways I tried to get near that space was by applying for jobs in salons. Back then, some retail salons still had dedicated receptionists or greeters — positions that mostly disappeared later as chains cut labor costs and stylists absorbed those duties themselves.
Then one afternoon, after leaving Deborah, Kim and I decided to take a different route home. We ended up at the declining but still lively Burlington Center Mall.
Even in decline, the mall had personality.
There was a suit store advertising two suits for $99. A Claire’s with a “secret” clearance back room. A small food court. Plenty of genuinely nice workers. At least one creep. The usual mall ecosystem.
And tucked into the mall was a store called Trade Secret.
Most people thought it was just a beauty supply store. From the outside, it didn’t really look like a salon. Unlike the giant glass fishbowl salons most malls had, this one felt smaller and quieter. Hidden almost.
But it was a salon.
Part of Regis Corporation, though I didn’t know or care about corporate ownership at the time.
What I cared about was the sign that said they did perms.
So after wandering the mall for a while, we walked in.
I remember nervously asking the Beauty Advisor if they had availability for a perm appointment. She disappeared into the back and came out with the stylist, who still had a color brush and mixing bowl in her hands.
She told me she didn’t have time that day.
Then she set everything down, grabbed her appointment book, and made me an appointment for the next morning.
And somehow, just like that, it became real.
The next morning, Kim and I piled into the Mercury Mountaineer and drove from Vineland to Burlington using the highways this time instead of the scenic route.
When I walked into the salon, I checked in with another Beauty Advisor and got escorted to the back. The salon itself was tiny — only four styling stations — but it was full. Mostly older women getting perms, sets, or touch-ups.
And somehow, despite all my fear, nobody looked at me like I didn’t belong there.
I was wearing jeans, a flowy peasant-style top, and a hoodie over it. When the stylist finally got to me, she smiled and said:
“I don’t know if you’ve done this before, but perms are kind of like water rides. You’re gonna get wet.”
Then she suggested I take the hoodie off so I’d be more comfortable.
That tiny moment mattered more than she probably realized.
Not suspicion.
Not hostility.
Not judgment.
Just practical salon advice.
We talked about what kind of curls I wanted and eventually settled on a mix of purple and white rods for medium, defined curls that would still leave me with some length.
Then came the process itself.
The wash station.
The chemical cape.
The rod cart.
The end papers.
Things that feel completely normal to me now felt almost unreal back then.
As she wrapped my hair around the rods, we chatted about random things while the other women in the salon joined the conversation from under dryers or neighboring stations.
And then came the moment I still remember perfectly.
Every rod was set. Every end paper wrapped tight. My scalp already felt the pull of the tension when the stylist held up the perm solution bottle and said:
“Well, here we are. The point of no return.”
Then she clipped the tip off the applicator bottle, nailed the first squeeze directly onto the center rods with perfect accuracy, and celebrated with a little “still got it” arm pump before saturating the rest.
The solution hit cold at first.
Then warm.
Then hot.
Not painful. Just surprising.
As the chemicals processed, a cotton cord sat around my hairline beneath a plastic cap clipped into place with another perm rod. I sat there talking with women who, for the first time in my life, made me feel less like an intruder and more like I was simply… there.
Like I belonged.
After the processing, neutralizing, rinsing, cutting, and styling, I finally saw the results.
I loved it immediately.
I loved the curls.
I loved the experience.
I loved the feeling of finally letting myself cross a line I’d been afraid of for years.
And then came the surprise.
The stylist handed me a job application.
She told me I was the only person she’d had back there in a long time who could genuinely hold conversations with her clients and that she needed more good people.
That’s how I became a Beauty Advisor at Trade Secret in Burlington Center Mall.
The job barely paid enough to cover gas and bills. Some of the mall security officers referred to me as “that thing” behind my back. There were absolutely hard moments.
But my stylist supervisor — who I won’t name, and who I believe has since passed away — treated me with kindness and dignity from the start.
And for the first time in my life, I had a job that brought me something more important than money.
It brought me joy.
Some of my favorite days were the slow ones. The quiet afternoons where I stocked shelves, helped customers pick products, cleaned stations, or sat in a chair while the stylist decided it was time to “refresh my look” again.
It felt less like work and more like being folded into a strange little salon family.
Eventually, though, Kim got sicker.
I left the job so I could take care of her and make the daily trips to the hospital until she passed away.
Not long after that, the store closed.
Then the mall closed too.
Eventually it was demolished entirely.
Sometimes I think about how strange it is that an entire place can disappear like that. A whole building. A whole chapter of your life. Gone.
But even now, after everything, I still miss that job.
Not because it was glamorous.
Not because it paid well.
I miss it because it was one of the first places in my life where I walked in as myself…
…and nobody asked me to leave.