I got my hair cut tonight. Exciting, huh? I know, my life is sooooo glamorous. But sitting in that salon chair got me thinking. About what? I don’t know. Lots of stuff, I guess. One of those things was how much I babble when I’m sitting there. I used to go to the same girl over and over. But the conversations got stale, and she was one of those people who blasted my face with the hair dryer until I couldn’t breathe. Yeah, she got the boot.
So, now I visit the Aveda Instruction Salon from time to time, where the stylists are like not quite certified and they need live models. You know, like animal testing. Because let’s face it, people. I’ve got the hair of a hippie. It’s long, straight, and just kind of like there. It’s too thin to be luxurious, too fine to be voluminous. The point is, it’s not hard to cut my hair. Snip, snip, clip, clip, pay at the front desk. I used to spend $75 at the fancy salon with the cucumber water and complimentary micro-dermabrasion treatments in the lobby. And then I’d walk out looking much like I look tonight. But now, going to the teaching salon, I saved like $50. Sure, my hair wasn’t completely dry when I left, and it took like an hour-and-a-half to trim ¾ of inch off, but I participated in the teaching experience. And I’m proud of that.
Okay, so I’m sitting there, telling myself to just chill and play it cool. Before I knew it, though, I found myself telling this girl, who was all of 17, about all my personal issues. Family issues, living-arrangement issues, I just basically threw up on her. Poor Alexis. She handled it like a champ, though. And yes, I have a clump of my own hair in my mouth, but she was really very sweet.
Another thing I noticed, when my hair was all wet and matted down to my head, and my tiny pinhead was sticking out the top of a giant cape, was that I don’t wear enough make up. Or have a tan. And at the end of the work day, the make up that I DID have on had gradually made its way down my face and into thin air. I was a straight-up mess. I looked awful. I looked around at all the shiny haired, perfectly coiffed stylist girls, each with their fancy matching outfits and coordinated jewelry, and I just felt like an ogre. Salons are supposed to make you feel good. Aveda, in particular, is supposedly full of “Day Makers”. Not the case. I’d prefer my stylists homely and unfortunate with a jelly stain on their sweater. I’d feel GREAT there. Anyone know of a place like that?
So, then the big reveal came. She whips the cape off, spins me around and says, “So???? Whaddya think??” I always feel like I feel when the waiter opens a bottle of wine for me and stands there while I pretend to know what I’m supposed to say. I WANT to say, “Yeah. So…it’s shorter! And, it appears as though it’s shiny and clean. Thanks!” I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t know how carefully to inspect it, or how much I need to gush. I always ALWAYS overdo it. “OHMYGOD! I love it! It’s like I have different hair! This looks amazing!”
I left feeling like instead of having MY day made, I made HER day. And then I over-tipped because I can’t do math and panicked at the check out desk. I think I might consider going back to my old system of trimming my own hair after a glass of wine with dull scissors from the knife block in the kitchen.
Have a great weekend, everyone!