Yesterday I had to go to the hairdressers again. I hate going to the hairdressers! With a vengeance!
But there is is, every two months or so I drag myself in and endure the routine. Yesterday it was worse than usual, because my regular hairdresser, a charming lady in every way, was replaced by a young man who was overeager and keen to please ....
I hate everything about the process. First you have to make an appointment, and argue with a silly young person who has only been there for a week and is completely clueless. No I don't want to book for the next three appointments, just the one. No I can't come in during the week - if I could I wouldn't have asked to come in on Saturday. No, opening late won't help me - 18:00 is no good since I don't get back until after that from my work, thanks all the same. It has to be Saturday, with my regular stylist. No I am not going to take a day off work to come in on a Wednesday. It is Broken Record Technique all the way, really, if you say often enough what you want, eventually they relent and give you the appointment you want. Sometimes you have to threaten to go elsewhere.....
So Saturday I marched into the salon, fortified with a good breakfast and having read all about the Greek crisis, just to put my impending sufferings into perspective - let the pain begin!
First they put you into special clothing and try to divest you from your purse. My purse! The receptacle of all my money, credit cards, keys, passport, asthma inhaler - and I am supposed to relinquish that to some giddy young person who can't even spell my name right? No way! Then they wrap a towel around your throat and secure it by stuffing it into the neckline of your top, thus widening it and spoiling the line - I now always wear my oldest clothes when going to the hairdressers.
In a bad mood I follow the shampooist into the back of the salon, to get my hair washed. I already washed it this morning, barely two hours ago, but that isn't good enough, no Sirree! They must wash it again. They do this by making you put your head backwards into a bowl, thus cricking your neck and causing muscle spasms. Every so often they ask you to lift your head - like, HOW? So I use my hands to lift up my head, only to be told to put it back. By now I am a growling hissing menace. The shampooist tries to insist on washing my hair twice and conditioning it to within an inch of its life, which would result in limp hair for a week, and I protest. If they argue, I snarl and threaten to leave the wretched chair.
Usually they acquiesce, and proceed with their next horror - massaging my scalp. Did I asked for this? How dare a complete stranger take liberties with my intimate body parts in this fashion? Couldn't they at least ask? Everyone likes this, they claim. I doubt it. People just get taken by surprise and don't want to make a fuss, so they let the apprentice hairdresser take out their excess energy on their roots. Me, I am never afraid to make a fuss when it comes to protecting my personal space.
Visibly shaken the shampooist asks whether she might be permitted to add conditioner to my hair. What sort, I inquire suspiciously - I am not going to give her another session of head back-bending. It is the sort that remains in the hair, apparently, so I allow her to put it on. She surreptitiously tries to do a bit of massaging while putting it on, but I cast her an outraged look and she desists.
Throughout this struggle I also have to rebuff numerous attempts from the shampooist to entangle me in meaningless conversation. Why does she want to know where I am from, why my accent is funny, where I work, what I have planned for the weekend, etc etc? Can't she just wash my hair quietly and leave me to my thoughts? She cannot. She witters and chatters and fails to get the hint that I am no more interested in her boyfriend than in telling her about my own sex life. Why would I be? She is a complete stranger, for goodness sake!
Finally she takes off the towel and sends me on my way. I have to wait for a few minutes before my stylist has time, which is fine. What is not fine is having numerous people come by offering to bring me coffee, biscuits, newspapers, magazines, and glasses of water. Such offers are good when I have to wait for a while, say if I arrive early, or if I have streaks done and have to sit in my chair for 20 minutes. But waiting for three minutes until my stylist arrives? Am I supposed to drink piping hot coffee in two minutes flat, before the hair-cutting commences? Do they expect me to interrupt the snipping every few minutes to take another sip from my glass of water? Show some sense, people!
Finally the stylist arrives, full of good cheer and anxious to make a good impression; I hate him already. He introduces himself and tells me about his life. I don't care. He asks how I want my hair cut. I like it as it is, just shorter, please. This is never good enough, unless you always go to the same stylist. For stylists like to experiment. They want to unfold their creative talents on your head and turn you into a different person. I always resist this, I am good enough as I am. Stylists rely on the shampooists to break your spirit, they think by the time you fall into their hands you have no strength left to fight your corner, and they can do what they want with your hair.
This never works with me. I always stand up for my defenseless follicles, and am impervious to charm, flirting, admonitions, references to fashion, and celebrity examples. This stylist claims he can't tell from my current hairdo what it was like two months ago. I quote several previous stylists who could, and suggest the salon get a digital camera and take photos after each cut, store them on their database, and when the client comes next time the stylist knows exactly what is required. This suggestion pains him deeply, and he mutters something about sterility and the need to try new things. I ignore this and tell him to get on with it, since I have things planned after my visit.
As he is clipping away I get a repeat performance of idle chatter and inane small talk. My regular stylist is great, we have discussed anything from the financial crisis to tadpoles, but the current one has no conversational depth. Anyway, until he has cut my hair at least half a dozen times he qualifies as a stranger and needs to keep his own counsel - not that he will get the chance, I shall insist on getting my regular stylist from now on.
When he is almost done, he insists on using hot tongs on my locks, which I suspiciously query - why is he doing this? My regular stylist never does? Apparently it helps him cut off the last few bits of errant hair that stick out. I let him do it this time, but never again. It took ages, and having washed my hair this morning I notice no improvement to my regular cut. So either this was another experiment, or this guy can only do a good job if he is allowed to perpetrate unusual techniques on my defenseless scalp.
Finally I get to see the back of my head, and it looks different to me - at least two millimeters shorter than it should be. And he hasn't shaved off the little hairs that are now below the hairline. He does this reluctantly when I point it out, and when finished doesn't show me the back of my head in the mirror again - not a good sign!
I escape from my chair, anxious to be gone, and hear his parting shot, 'See you again soon! Always happy to cut your hair if your regular stylists can't make it!' I kind of feel sorry for him, and guilty for thinking such mean thoughts about his efforts, because he so clearly means well and tries so hard, but frankly, all I want is a simple haircut! I don't want a social experience, or a physical encounter, or a makeover, or a style change, or any of the other fancy nonsense these frustrated artists dream up and try to inflict on me.
No, I don't want to buy their salon products, and why do they need my postcode and my e-mail just so I can pay my bill? I don't want their e-mails offering me new products, and I don't trust their protestations that they will never send me e-mails and that they just need it for their records. My name is all they need, and even that I give grudgingly!
And no, the offer of a free head massage if I come more than five times a year holds no attraction for me!
All this aggro just to shorten my wispy strands by an inch! Honestly!
