Monday, September 21, 2015

My Hair Cut


 
I don’t have very good luck with salon cuts. Probably if I were more decisive or picky it might help the haridresser. Instead I go in and serendipitously say do something. I don’t go very often.

But I had this Groupon for a cut and color.

The experience reinforced the impression that I am an old lady. I showed her a picture and gave her what I thought was a good verbal description: short and sporty.

She kept showing me Pinterest pics of models with hairdos that require blow drying, gels, and a live-in stylist.

She conferred with her colleagues and came back with pretty much the same hair style. It was someone I wasn’t. I didn’t know how to say it any plainer. Short and sporty.

I should have said, Let’s forget this. But I was starting to feel like I might be wrong and just wanted to go with the flow. Again, this isn’t how a customer should feel. I was reminded of when I went shopping for my wedding dress with someone who had good taste and strong opinions. She kept pushing me to go punk when I kept thinking English Tea Garden. Finally I just gave in and bought a dress that she suggested, something that reminded me of the female vocalist in Cowboy Junkies. Not me.

Thank God I returned it.

She wetted it and pinned it up in several places and took two snips. “What do you think?”

Uh, I thought you’re going to keep going, right? She had the picture right in front of her.

Anyway, this kept up for over an hour. She’d hesitantly make an incision and ask me what I thought. Finally, I said, You have to stop with the questions. Can you make it look like the picture? By the way, she was NOT in training. Though I wondered if because I had a Groupon they might have assigned me someone new, someone needing to build up her own list of clients.

What was killing me was the abortive effort—combing out a clump, pulling it toward her scissors and then letting it drop, and then repeating this motion without making a cut. After two or three tries she’d finally do something, only to do the same thing all over again. At a certain point I wanted to snatch the scissors out of her hands and ask, Can I just finish up here?

After 90 minutes she asked if I needed another tea, more water? My blood sugar had dropped. What I really needed was a sandwich. How close are we to being done?

She seemed hurt. I can go get my manager. Yes, I thought, maybe she could finish me off. They conferenced in a corner. Then it hit me. She’s crying. She’s likely complaining about the bitch in the chair whom she just can’t please. I get it. I stood up and pulled the cape off.

But do you love it? she begged. She followed me to the front desk,asking over and over, if I loved it. I realized I had to make her happy. So I lied. YES!

It was the most unfeminist thing ever. And, I hated myself for it. I caved in like I used to, used to with my parents, teachers, the wedding shopper. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. But first she told me, if I didn’t like it I could always come back.

Like never.

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