I get my hair cut about once a year. For real. Sometimes not even that often. I think my record was four years and culminated in a donation to Locks of Love. I know my schedule sounds weird to a lot of people, including my stylist who recommends a visit every six weeks. Of course, he does. Whatever. I don’t go because it costs too much. I pay as much for my lone haircut as my sister does for three of hers.
Apparently, my hair is hard to cut. Not so much the cutting as the making it look good when it’s done. Wavy hair and nests of oddly placed cow-licks are nothing to toy with. While it’s not easy to give me a good haircut, it’s a cakewalk to give me a bad one. I’ll tell you about them sometime. My current guy is the only one who has been able to produce consistent and excellent results that are totally worth the money. As in, I don’t look like a Weird Al with bad hair. For a few weeks, I actually like what I see in the mirror.
I’m not a vain person. Obviously because I get my coif done once a year. But given a choice between six weeks a year of looking and feeling great or 52 weeks of looking like something the cat dragged in, I’m going with the annual ‘do. And yesterday was it.
When I walked in, I knew something was wrong. All eyes behind the counter were on me. They were not totally excited to see me because due to a serious computer glitch, they had double-booked all of their appointments for the next two weeks. The receptionist offered an apologetic smile, gestured to the lady who has walked in right before me and said “That’s his real three o’clock.” I passed a brief Pinocchio/ Velveteen Rabbit moment and wondered what I needed to do to become a real appointment and humbly took my seat.
After a few minutes, I got called back to the shampooing spot (I suppose they’re called sinks, but what do I know? I only go once a year), and I remembered that I don’t like having my hair washed by strangers. I couldn’t relax because said stranger was scrubbing my head with skull-rattling vigor. Then she totally threw me off by asking “Do you want a massage?” What kind of question is that? Do I? I don’t know…What part of my body is involved, and does it cost extra? I opted out. Just as a crack of thunder broke and the lights flickered. Of course.
Why wouldn’t the power threaten to go out? It’s been out at my house four times in the last two weeks. I am the anti- He-man, it appears. I imagined a bowl-cut by candlelight. But the lights stayed on. Finally The Real Three O’Clock was finished, and it was my turn. The woman must have had a power switch in her butt because the moment her tookus left the chair, the lights went out. And stayed that way.
Fortunately, it was early enough in the day that there was plenty of light, despite the cloud cover. The receptionist merely raised the blinds, and all was well. It was with much relief that I parked myself in the swivel chair and let the cutting commence. But then it dawned on me. No power = no blow dryer. Sad face.
I was kind of counting on the whole blow-dry-of-the-hair thing. It’s a treat to get my hair all fixed up. I was looking forward to it. And I don’t actually own a hair dryer myself. What? You found that admission surprising? Re-read paragraph one while the class waits for you.
So no fluff drying. I did suggest that perhaps he have all the other stylists get together and blow on my head, but he declined. I’m not sure why. He’s the owner of the salon. I’m sure they’d have done it if he asked nicely. But whatever. All I can say is that I didn’t get the full salon experience, and I feel cheated. If I had been more than a Three O’Clock impersonator, I’d have had the electricity to do the job right. I try not to think about it.
I think I might go a little nuts and schedule myself another appointment in six months. Or maybe I’ll buy myself a blow dryer.