By the end of last week, my husband realized that I was reaching Critical Mass (the black-hole-death-of-a-star definition, not the Violet Beauregarde-becomes-a-blueberry definition) and, in his infinite wisdom and interest in self-preservation, Hubs made an appointment at the spa for me. (He’s a sweetheart, you guys, and if you see him in person today, you should hug him and ask him to do that two-tone whistle. HE’LL LOVE IT!)
Except…I preferred to cancel that appointment and instead get my hair cut at the salon.
I only get my hair cut about once a year, and love it more than any mani/pedi package out there. For an entire hour, someone professionally certified to make me look pretty plays with my hair. HEAVEN.
Because I only go once a year, I never get to know the stylists very well, even though I go to the same salon every time.
The lady on my right is giving her stylist an update on her kid’s strep throat status, while my stylist is asking me if I’m married and have any kids.
And because of this, coupled with my inability to give dynamic first impressions, once all pleasantries have been addressed, they normally go about their business snipping away in silence, while I compose blog posts in my head and try not to make accidental eye contact with them in the mirror.
Thus, it’s a very introspective time for me. So much so that I’d like to confess some things that were going through my mind. (Calm down, there’s only five.)
1. I cut my own bangs. I always feel self-conscious when I get my hair cut because I know they know I cut my own bangs with a pair of junk drawer scissors. I can feel it in their judgmental snip-snip-snips as they salvage the carnage that is my bangs. I would like to point out (as I did hastily as soon as my stylist combed through the wreckage) that I most recently cut my bangs to be Punky Brewster for Halloween.
2. I have really great hair. Professional hair people tell me so every single time, and I’m always surprised. Please don’t tell me they’re just being polite so I’ll give them a hefty tip. Truthfully, I do have good hair. I’ve never dyed it (I don’t count my Sun-In stage), I hardly ever put anything in it, and it’s healthy, thick and fabulous. I should expect their compliments (even if they’re ill-motivated) after all these years, but I’m always super flattered. (Now if only the people at Starbucks will compliment me on how skinny I look.)
3. Eye contact weirds me out. I know it’s inevitable that the stylists get all up in my personal space, and that I’m actually paying them to do so, but I still haven’t figured out the appropriate place to look when they’re half an inch from my face caressing my hair. Especially since the stylist I had this past weekend was a fellow. So I just stared at his forearms. They were quite beefy for a man who earns a living cutting women’s hair.
4. I’m really not as funny as I think I am. That’s kind of a sad realization. Pity laughs are worse than blank stares, you guys. What makes it worse is that I had to repeat the not-that-funny over the blare of hairdryers and jazz-infused Eastern hipster music, only to solicit that soul-crushing half-laugh. An additional realization is that I REALLY need to work on my first impression before Killer Tribes. (PS, conference friends, if my jokes seem rehearsed, THEY’RE TOTALLY NOT, OKAY.)
5. When I become a billionaire, I will hire someone to shampoo my hair every single morning. This is the REAL reason I get my hair cut at a fancy salon. Head massages, people.