It is said that women love hairdressers. In fact, there are those who cannot pass without a couple of weekly visits to a salon, those who claim that they couldn't pass without their favourite hairdresser, those who think less of other women because they cannot see the divine in a hairdressing moment.
I've grown up in close proximity to a hairdresser. I saw her start her first salon, then her second, then close her first, then open her third. I spent hours and hours seeing people in and out of all of them in a cloud of hairspray and new polished nails. I even got to work in one of them for a while, only to feel a little like a guinea pig, who's hair kept on changing colour almost in an attempt to match the nails.
Still, after all these years, I am still so allergic to entering a hairdresser... Months pass by while I (in a mix of unhappy happiness) postpone the decision of entering those scary places. I guess my biggest problem is really the fact that I never seem to like the results - at least, not twice in a row. I've been noticing a decrease of quality in this area and I just don't like it. I've seen lack of professionalism, people saying that they can do about a billion different things without being qualified or experienced to do it. It's truly scary.
But, anyway, there's a time when I do get fed up with looking myself in the mirror and feeling like that there's just nothing else to do with my stringy hair than getting it cut. Yesterday was one of those days.
This time around I decided to pick a new hairdresser salon, considering how disappointing my last visit was. Service was speedy and, soon enough, I was relieved of my coat, bag and scarf, thrown into a blue gown and sat by the mirror so I could more closely admire my hair disaster. My instructions were simple - due to a rather annoying health situation, my hair seems to be falling by the load and I'm undergoing treatment for that problem, so what I really want is to get it cut cut cut, as in rather short, because I'm sick and tired of this few strands of hair I've got left.
I did think my instructions were rather simple, and as I was in a hurry, I expected to get my hair washed, cut, blow dried and, after being relieved of the necessary amount of Euros, just be out the door in time to pick my daughter up from school. But, of course, (as experience warned me), it just wasn't going to be that simple. First, I had to politely refuse a super duper extra great anti-fall treatment, even if I had just mentioned I was undergoing one, especifically prescribed by doctor for my condition. Then I had to refuse the super duper extra hiper great shampoo, that just wasn't going to do anything anyway. So, after a while, I tried to make my message sms-short: I just need my hair cut, that's about it! And finally, my original idea of wanting it super short in the back and chin length in the front seemed to the professional quite outraging and so, half anesthetized, I just settled for whatever cut would be coming my way, desperate to get out of there, at least in time to not get my child handed over to the social services based on parental abandonment.
I did get out of there... Eventually... And, almost!, in time to get my daughter from school... It took me 1,5 hour to get a haircut - not what I had in mind, you see, but whatever my skilful hairdresser had in mind for me... And my evergrowing hairdresser panic is fed once again for the next half a year or so. My wallet is also slightly confused - mainly for the fact that I paid almost twice as much as I have been paying for the same kind of service.
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"What about your nails? Do you want to get them fixed?"
"You know, once again, I did only come in for a speedy haircut!"
Carla 0 - The Universe 1
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