Letters of Complaint, vol.6
Dear Hair Salon,
Why is it I seem to always get assigned to the prettiest, most fashionable hairdresser in the place? As soon as I walk in the door I suddenly get a bad case of inadequate's. It does form a wonderful juxtaposition though, me trailing along behind her to discuss the exciting work I wanted done to my hair. ("Just a trim? Ok then.").
Then I have to get my hair washed. Though, I don't really want to. It was just washed at home actually, and I'm pretty sure I will end up with a sore neck from those sinks made out of the hardest material imaginable. What's that you say? It's just plastic? And you'll place a towel under me? Ohh, that's what that bunchy awkward thing is slipping and sliding between me and this basin made of stone.
You start to massage the shampoo in. This is the part where I'm supposed to be closing my eyes, enjoying this sensation. And I do shut them, to go along with this facade, but all the while my neck is throbbing from this suspended position I'm holding it in. Now comes the conditioner, which I dread, because my hair gets all knotty and caught in your fingers and you pull it and OW...but I just smile. "That's ok :)" :/
At least though, at the sink, I can pretend to be in bliss and therefore conversation is not expected.
Now that we have made our way to the chair though, the effort must begin.
"So what do you do?"
I give a one word answer, trying my darndest to embelish and fill in the blanks. This is met with her one word response. Then:
"So any plans for the weekend?"
I try to think of some fun and cool made-up plans. She nods and smiles.
Soon, we give up, and between us is only silence, broken only by the sharp snipping sounds of scissor against wet hair.
The ladies around us though? Endless shiz to talk about. The words are spilling and tumbling out, talking over each other almost, they have so much to say.
"Gee" I can imagine my hairdresser thinking, "sure wish I could have gotten that client, we would have so much to talk about! Just think of the fun we could be having, time would zip by."
But nope, just me, hair plastered back like a wet rat, stuck in front of its own reflection. Staring dully.
Finally, we're done, and it looks ok. Pretty good. I fawn over it, oohing and aahing, because I feel that I should.
This time it's her following me, to the front counter. I wonder, do I give her a tip? Now? Or later, over debit?
I go to pay and am secretly appalled at the price, screaming obscenities inside. Outwardly, I stay silent, and scold myself for accepting the hair washing, which surely must be why it's so expensive?!
(Then I leave, to nurse my tension headache from sink injury to the neck.)
And the sick thing, dear hair salon, is this gets to happen again in 6 weeks or so. Or whenever I can't stand the sight of my hair any longer, whichever happens first.
I'm betting on the latter.
Most Likely Forever Yours,Compliant Hair-grower