I have this theory that women can be neatly divided into two camps and never the twain shall meet.
In one camp are those women who regard a visit to a hair salon as something of a treat; who look upon it as a regular, perhaps even weekly indulgence, whether their hair needs doing or not. Such women enjoy being pampered, they enjoy the chat, the cup of coffee, and the selection of magazines to browse through.
And then there’s the others, those women to whom visits to the hairdressers are akin to visits to the dentist; who see them as a necessary evil, something to be done under duress.
Much as I’d like to belong to the former, I belong to the latter. Nothing, absolutely nothing, puts me in a worst mood than the thought of a hairdresser’s appointment looming over me.
Except the reality of turning up for one, like I did today.
I like to think of myself as a fairly sociable person but something happens me when I visit the hairdresser’s. The minute I step through that door, I undergo a personality change and become a female Victor Mildrew.
Things didn’t start well this morning. No sooner had I walked in when the stylist came over to have a chat to me about my hair or, to put me in my place, depends on which way you look at it.
Holding my locks up in the air, she asked, ‘Where (meaning where on earth!!) did you get your hair cut the last time?’ In my case, it’s a reasonable question but I suspect that if the girl from the Timotei advert walked in off the street, even she’d be subjected to the same question in the same, disdainful way. I can only guess that by making me feel so bad about the state of my hair, the stylist figured I was more likely to say yes to every hairspray, gel, conditioner, she subsequently ‘suggested’ I might like to purchase at the ‘special in-salon price of €39.99 only.’ I might have been too except that I was on to her game.
Next, I was gowned up and escorted to the sink. What is it with salon sinks? Is there anything more excruciating than having your head yanked back into one? I did ask the girl charged with shampooing me to go a little easier, pointing out that I’d read somewhere about people who’d been permanently incapacitated from having their heads jerked about in such an unnatural way but I don’t think she heard me, she was that busy chewing gum.
Then, back again to my seat. As I sat there with the towel around my head, I began thinking about the lighting. What trick of salon lighting makes the hairdressers look so fabulous, yet, at the same time, makes the customers (or me, at any rate) look so awful?
Of course having my hair scraped back from my forehead and half my make-up washed off didn’t help but, even so. Before I left home I looked reasonable but the face staring back at me in the salon this morning had all the appeal of a criminal posing for a mug shot.
And then there was the coffee.
‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ I was asked.
‘Coffee, please,’ I replied. ‘With just a little milk and two sugars.’
Minutes ticked by, but no sign of that coffee.
‘Tea or coffee?’ I was asked again.
‘Ah, coffee, please, with just a little milk and two sugars,’ I answered, again.
So I sat there, waiting, thinking how well that coffee would go down but, ten, twenty, minutes passed and still no sign of it.
‘Tea or coffee?’ another tanned, black-clad, navel-exposing junior asked me.
‘Coffee, please, with just a little milk and two sugars,’ I replied, for the third time.
Sometimes, I can’t help feeling it’s a little game they play with the customers. Perhaps it’s their way of getting revenge for all those bundles of hair they’re made sweep up.
And of course, there came the inevitable questions, the famous hairdressers' questions.
‘Are you going anywhere nice on holidays?’
‘Are you doing anything for the weekend?’
‘Are you heading out tonight?’
‘NO! NO! NO!’ I longed to scream. ‘Look! I live a boring, unfulfilled life, don’t highlight this to me by asking such questions!’
Well, hairdressers, now that I’m safely out of the reach of your scissors, I have a couple of questions for YOU! Hairdressers, do you really care where we’re all going at the weekend? Hairdressers, isn’t the real reason you ask us such questions is because it then gives you the right to tell us about the far more exciting holidays and nights outs you’ve planned?
As for that, ‘How would you like it styled?’ question. One day, one day, I’ll summon up the courage to reply, ‘In total silence, please.’
But instead, when I was asked that question today, I started mumbling for, as usual, I didn’t really know what it was I wanted. Not that that stopped me expecting my stylist to know.
So, I sat there, with my glum head on me, keeping a watchful eye on every snip the stylist unfortunate enough to get me made, while irritably reflecting on the fact that I still hadn’t got my coffee. Unresponsive to her questions, the verbal interaction between professional and client was soon reduced to her repeatedly asking me if I’d, ‘mind looking up, please?’
In the absence of any clear direction from me I guess she assumed I wasn’t all that fussy, and cut and styled according to what she thought best but, what she didn’t know is that, although I might not know what I wanted, I did know what I DIDN’T want.
Which is what she gave me.
So, as always, my trip to the hairdresser’s ended in bad grace. When asked if I was satisfied, I mumbled I was, whilst making it perfectly clear that I wasn’t.
Most women seem to get to a stage in their lives where they have a hairdresser they go to regularly. I still don’t. In fact, most hairdressing establishments might not know this but they have been blacklisted by me. I only go back when I’ve done the complete rounds of all the others.
So another one bites the dust, for the time being. For long enough so that, hopefully, they won’t remember me when I go back again the next time.
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