Alright, I need to talk about hair here for a second. Or more importantly, the ongoing codependent relationship I have with all hairdressers. I don’t think there exists a more powerful creature than a woman with a pair of scissors. Upon congregation, I’m instantly a bumbling, people-pleasing, sycophantic mess.
Conversation in my head on the way to getting a haircut:
“Ok, Alex, this time…tell her you don’t like the dry-cutting. Or that texturing, that razor blade, or any tool with “thinning” in the name. Tell her, TELL her that $78 was way too much to spend on a cut that you could have gotten from a Flowbee. Remind her that you said this before the last cut, and are indeed a little disappointed, which probably wasn’t reflected in the fact that you still generously tipped 20%.”
What actually happens in the salon:
“Hiya, yeah…just a bang trim.”
I swear it’s something about that black silky cape they choke around my neck. Instantaneously, I more resemble a bowling-ball with pressed-on Lego hair, than a woman about to get her lovely locks trimmed. In a vulnerable panic, I’m willing to take any outside advice on how to look better. The cacophony of, “I’m going to die alone” drowns out any preconceived notions about how I wanted my hair cut.
And away the hair flies. It’s like watching a sheep getting sheared — hairs sliding down the cape and pooling into my lap. I’m chatting away: complimenting her super trendy outfit, asking if she’s always been passionate about hair, and remarking on how difficult it must be on one’s feet all day listening to people’s problems.
But before I have time to prattle on longer about what an artist of hair she is, my poncho swooshes off. I’m left with Audrey Hepburnish bangs which can best be measured using fractions. I’d like to remind everyone here of said bowling-ball; 1 &1/4 inches is not a length flattering to such proportions.
“Wow…that’s short! Thanks!”
Maybe next time.