Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Where we discover that hairdressers are sadists
You've put it off long enough. Off to the hairdresser you go.
You sit in the chair and they robe you up in black capes and special clips so that you feel like you have extra powers and can hang off the side of a building on just a string of saliva. Your alter ego kicks in and suddenly you want to do summersaults in the salon and stick to the ceiling like a gecko.
But all thoughts of super hero-dom are quickly quelled when they very slowly but very surely make you look like a baked potato. There you sit while you voluntarily get someone to put layer after layer of smelly purple (yes purple – what’s with that?) stuff in your hair, covered with tin foil. If you paid a whole design college to try and come up with a way to make you look stupider they wouldn’t manage. This is the ultimate. My baby comes in the room and starts balling, and really who can blame her. And you sit there for what - must be an hour? – smelling of bleach and looking seriously daft and you can’t really DO anything. It’s not like you can go for a wander about outside, go and get some chores done. All you can do is look at magazines full of gorgeous people and wonder how often they have to go through this to look like that. And every time you look up you nearly wet your pants with fright at the creature staring back at you in the mirror. Do they have to put you in front of a mirror? What sort of torture is that? And then the hairdresser comes over and you think ‘phew, we’re done’. She takes a peek under the tin foil and says ‘hmmm, not yet, maybe ten more minutes’ and puts the egg timer on again so you really do feel like a potato in an oven.
Then they take you to have your hair washed. My worst bit. Especially since they always seem to think you’re enjoying it so much. Like that gary Larson cartoon - same world different planets. A classic case of faked orgasm. There you are with your head at a most unnatural angle with a great hunk of porcelain digging into your neck. Your shoulders are by your ears, all knotted up and sore, and you’re trying really hard to pretend that you’re enjoying it, coz it seems that that’s what’s expected of you. And the water is too hot and the lady is reaaally taking her time, massaging away, putting in all these potions and saying ‘is the water too hot?’ And you can’t tell her that it is coz your eyes are watering so bad and your jaw is clenched and all you can think is ‘please just bloody hurry up. Ow ow ow’. And then your baby starts crying outside, she’s with your mother but it seems all she wants is you. Your boobs start spurting milk and the lady, oblivious, is still massaging your head. And she is probably thinking, ‘ah, man I hate this bit. Washing all this smelly hair, so bloody boring. Why can’t I be cutting the hair for god sakes? I’m good enough, but oh no, I have to make the coffee and be here massaging a strangers head. And there she sits, all comfortable in her chair enjoying my really good massage – I obviously have a good touch, look I’ve brought tears to her eyes. I’m having a shitty day, I’m going to make the water just a wee bit too hot’ Then the conditioner goes in and she puts a comb through the knots. My god, I nearly hit the roof (and not in a super hero gecko-on-the-ceiling way this time). I keep thinking ‘oh come on, I’ve been through child birth, how bad can this be? Fucking OW!’ But I sit quietly in a grimace (interpreted as a smile) and let her finish, her tugging away at my tender head, me sitting with leaky eyes and boobs.
You hobble back to the hairdressers chair in your drooping cape, feeling less and less like the super-hero and then, as if that’s not enough, the hairdresser then comes at you grinning manically with another comb and tugs and pulls at your hair some more. Now for the fun quick bit, snip snip snip, your hair tumbles to the floor, piles up and up and up. Ah, that feels better.
But, no, we’re not finished yet! You still have to have your hair blow-dried! Why do they try and keep you in there so long? Seriously, what’s with these people? And the blow-dry takes. ForEVER. More pulling and tugging and grimacing and having to look at yourself in the mirror. And it goes on. And on. And ON. Just when you think they MUST be done, they find another six strands of hair that need to be dried just so.
Then finally! It's time to go. But, oh oh, I almost forgot. They've been quietly tut-tutting about the state of your hair, like subliminal advertising and at the end of it all they persuade you that your life will be greatly improved if you buy this tub of snot and these bottles of miraculous endorphin producing gloop. The price? You're worried about the price? But why would you balk at paying the same as a small but reliable car when YOUR HAPPINESS DEPENDS ON IT? Tut tut, some people!
But then you come out looking and feeling like you just got laid and all is forgiven.