So I'm a ridiculous cheapskate about some things in life. Like a absolutely refuse to drop $65 on a haircut. If you knew how fast and furiously my hair grew, you'd understand why as well.
I suppose it's a disproportionately adamant stance, given that I'd gladly drop $100 on a dinner out, but then again, I guess I can't really compare a haircut to dinner, given the amount of time I spend dreaming, speculating and fantasizing about food.
It was only last week when I finally capitulated, and decided to go to the salon below Delta's building for a haircut. It had been 9 months since my previous haircut, so I was a bit nervous. I hate it when hair dressers tsk tsk about the condition of your hair, it makes me angsty. Same as I get angsty when I take too long packing my own groceries in the super market and there's a lengthening queue behind me, but let's not get off track here.
Anyways, so there I was sitting in the chair feeling slightly uncomfortable, my hair had been shampoed and conditioned and wrapped into an enormous towelled pile which was balancing precariously on my head.
The hairdresser snuck up on me from behind.
"So, what do we want to do with our hair today?!" she exclaimed, and I, who had been lost in thought, nearly fell out of the chair.
"I'm not fussy about the style, but I just want it much shorter," I said firmly. "Three to four inches off at least." There. Now I wouldn't have to worry about another haircut for another 9 months.
"What?! Your hair short?! No no no!" she exclaimed.
I stopped short. Eh?
"No, no, your hair look so nice and straight and healthy! You can't make it short! Other girls, they have dry hair and I tell them cut. But not you, your hair must be long. I tell you what. I cut it one inch, and I give you some layers. Okay?"
"Okay," I said meekly. I mean, who was I to know anything about my own hair anyway.
So a quick snip snip in the back, and then she was asking me what I wanted in the front. I get somewhat anxious when they ask me what I want, because to be honest, I never know. I envy the girls who can come in with a picture of Jennifer Aniston, or Scarlett Johanson, or whoever, and be like - I want my hair to look like that. Jeez, how do they know!
"Okay, how you want your front?"
"Can you give me something that slims my face?" I asked. "It doesn't matter what style, but it just needs to make these cheeks of mine look narrower."
"What?! Your cute baby face?! Oh no no no! We can't do that!"
Eh?
"I tell you what I cut some layers to frame your face and blend in with the back. Is look good. Okay?"
"Okay," I agreed.
When I left the store an hour later, to be honest my hair looked more or less the same. Infinitesimally shorter, perhaps, and with a couple of layers. But boy, she had complimented my hair, and my face shape, I was on top of the moon!
When you spend $65 on a haircut, who cares what the hair looks like if you come out walking on clouds, eh.
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3 comments:
So true about the grocery packing, especially when you can't get the bags open because you've got dry hands. Sometimes I remember the stress it causes me before its my turn and I start nervously licking my fingers in the queue, which must look a little strange. Plus I also get angsty about packing so that the weight is equally distributed between an even number of bags for carrying purposes...
Almost as bad as going through the airline security check with winter coat, laptop, and lace-up boots...
-FMP
As far as the airline security lines go. Please, for my and the others in line prepare for the purge. Hint, prior to the nuke machine, 1. loosen shoes, 2. laptop out, 3. cell phone in your bag, coins, keys, big "Don't Mess With Texas" belt buckles off. And no, 40 ounce bottles of lotion don't fly no matter what the excuse is. Just some ideas that might make your journey and my next 20 years a bit easier.
Delta.
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