I hate going to the hairdresser. HATE IT. I rank it up there with going to a routine gyno or dental appointment. At some point during each of these visits you’ve got something stuck somewhere and you’re not going anywhere.
I’ve been going to the same salon for almost two years. They have this schtick they do every single time I go. There’s about five or so different people that surround me and perform various functions; greeting me, leading me to the room to put the salon robe on, getting me a cup of herbal tea, leading me to the area where the colorist, stylist and two other people stand over me to discuss the idea of beauty.
It goes something like this:
Stylist: “We like to discuss the idea of beauty with you. I like how your hair frames your face and the layers which have dimension and lend themselves to a style that’s perfect for you.”
Colorist: “I agree. I like the different shades that we’ve created for you. The texture and dimension are beautiful.”
Two other women (the one that will eventually wash my beautiful hair and the one that will offer me a free hand massage that I always turn down) are nodding and smiling.
Me: “I’d like my hair to look like this.” I pull out a picture of Reese Witherspoon. The stylist tells me mine is very similar to that (really??) and remember these celebrities have people fussing over there hair all the time and my hair is not of the same texture as Reese’s.
Darn, I wonder what texture Reese has.
Anymore, I just sit there with a fake smile on my face because the one time I told them they didn’t have to go through this every time, they all looked at me as if I’d maimed them or something. So I sit there and nod, while thinking to myself, So we’re doing the same thing that we always do. Got it, now can we get the show on the road?
Then, begins the excruciatingly long process of transformation. Foils, stinging smells, timers beeping, washing, turning down the hand massage thing again, combing it out, cutting it, standing up while she’s cutting it, sitting down while she’s cutting it, pulling, tugging, drying.
Two and a half to three hours later, after paying, tipping and trying to figure out why this cost as much as it did, I’m walking out the door with nary a gray strand and gleaming, bouncing hair that will not feel like that again (because they use different products in the salon than the ones you buy — I know they do!) until I come back eight weeks later.
There’s a new salon that’s opened up near me which is a combination beauty salon and pet groomers. Seriously, doesn’t that violate some kind of health code? I know that part of a dog’s grooming process is to extract their anal glands. I don’t want to be anywhere near anal gland extraction while I’m getting my hair done.
I look longingly at the tousled, golden locks that Reese has and wonder if we truly do not have the same texture. I think we do, it’s just she’s got that heart-shaped face and impish little chin and I don’t. That’d probably throw the whole thing off anyway.