I was sitting in the hairdressers today, looking forward to walking out and having my hair styled in only a way that a professional salon can offer. I was praying that my dream from last night of having a malicious stylist cut most of my newly bleached locks off without permission just to sell them and make money, was not a premonition for my visit. First I had the wash, and then I was offered a chair to sit in for over an hour whilst my tresses were trimmed, blow-waved, and then I was sent on my merry way.
While perched in that seat, I realised a few things. I don’t like sitting in that chair in front of the mirror. You are forced to look at yourself and internally pick away at your flaws. I don’t think the lighting helps either, as it makes the dark circles under my eyes look like I have been awake for 72 hours straight and my junk food fuelled hangover cure pimples are winking at me in clusters.
I look down at my feet to avoid seeing my scary face. ‘Oh crap’, there’s the biggest wad of dog crap smooshed onto the side of my shoe. It’s so big it looks like an attachment. I know the culprit too. It’s the evil walking snow-white powder puff little shit from next door who barks all day long, and roams free to deposit little shits on my lawn.
Then I have to endure the small-talk that hair stylists love to indulge in. Too be honest, I can’t be bothered hearing about the problems you are having with your Sky TV, that was supposed to be up and running. Then they try to pry into your life, adding to their gossip magazine bank of things to say to other customers. Confidentiality + hair stylist = non-existent. But mime artist + hair stylist = awesome idea.
Then I thought about all the places I’d ever had haircuts. From cigarette scented barbers in Hong Kong who give sleep inducing scalp massages, to a group of stylists who are summoned over to look at my big eyes in South Korea. I’ve paid anywhere from $10 to $70 for a haircut.
My most cringe-worthy and tear-inducing haircut was during my first year of university. Cash was hard to come by, and when I did have some in my pocket it was spent at the liquor store or on clothes. I ventured into an insta-haircut shop in the mall, which promised a chop for cheap. I had the picture of what I wanted in hand. Edward Scissorhands butchered away at my precious head fur, and I was left with a mullet. I was mortified. I ended up spending $40 more dollars at another salon to get it ‘fixed’. I was told by my other half that if I ever cut my hair short like a boy again, he was going to grow a moustache.
I snapped out of my walk down memory lane, and used the horrible reflection administerer to watch the other stylists. Have you ever noticed that hairdressers more often than not have hair styles that are so funky and experimental that you doubt that anyone would ever ask for one of their styles?
My split ends are gone, my fringe is trimmed, and I’ve been given the standard ‘you can only use these products that we happen to have for sale’. My mane is now sussed for another few months, until I can psych myself up to go back again.