*Warning: this post is bitchy. I blame all the coca cola I drank while I was sick.*
"Mums can be stylish too!", the twenty-something girl doing my hair exclaimed in a serious but optimistic way, as she stretched and twisted my hair around the paddle of her brush and applied fifteen unnecessary products. I stifled a laugh and then, realizing she was not joking, wondered what she - with her leggings and boots and hairstyle that probably took fifty minutes to put together this morning - must have thought of me - with my sweater and jeans and comfortable shoes and tired expression.
My usual hairdresser was on holiday and though usually I'd wait for her to return (because she is the bestest and most awesomest stylist in the world), I decided my hair situation was simply too dire to put off the appointment, and agreed instead to see the next available person.
I'll call her Cindy.
The appointment started with a fifteen minute
Cindy was not convinced I would be able to handle it. She tapped her fingers and looked at me from the corner of her eyes with her head turned pensively, to assess whether she deemed me a suitable candidate for bangs.
Finally, a few minutes later, she relented, gushing that, actually I would LOVE bangs, and that they would be super easy to look after.
After that, the conversation flowed relentlessly, and I'm pretty sure we covered everything in Western culture from the price of commodities to the drug problem of today's youth. (All highly serious topics will in future be written in italics to denote the seriousness of the subject.)
If you'd been a fly on the wall at my appointment, these are some of the statements you might have been privy to.
"It's really hard being a mom."
"Me, I want four kids, personally."
"I don't have any, yet."
"You go to work, and then you come home and they're screamin' and attacking you!"
"I don't know why people have kids."
"But I worry about kids growing up these days, what with all the cocaine!"
"Everyone's doing it."
"And it's expensive too."
"Its... like... hmm, how much is it? Oh I don't remember now."
"If you take enough of it, it can really damage your brain!"
"Men! They don't have a clue do they!"
"They never change!"
"They're all the same!"
"My back is killing me, I really need a massage."
"Really - you're a massage therapist?"
"You don't even KNOW how good massage therapy is for you!"
"Oh wait, you do."
"I don't know if anyone has told you this, but the average lifespan of a massage therapist is five years."
"It's really hard work."
I listened to all the morsels of wisdom, and responded accordingly, nodding and shaking my head at the right moments, because in the end I just wanted my damn hair to be cut and made shiny.
And, actually, Cindy did do a very nice job.
So I gave her a good tip, told her to get that massage, and vowed to never visit a different hairdresser again.
The end (of my bitchiness. Normal, nice-person blogging will resume in two days).