Yucky Mummy contributor Leisa Chell just wants to tune out and read a good book when she gets her hair done. But it’s not going to happen.
I hate hairdressers: a rather harsh fact, but one that seems to be cemented in my psyche. Every appointment is like Groundhog Day. I walk into the funky salon, within the funky suburb of Sydney’s Surry Hills. The ambience is great – gorgeous (albeit gay) men to massage my head, and an interior design that wouldn’t look out of place in the pages of Vogue Living. Ahhhh, stylish and posh, just the pampering I deserve.
I sit down, the chairs look great, but a ‘Stayfree regular’ has more padding and comfort. I pull out my book, to bury my nose deep within. After a busy day at the office, the last thing I want to do is make small talk, especially when I am paying. Over comes the “colourist” (about seven people will work on my head by then end of the night). I keep my nose buried – surely she will realise I’m not in the mood for talking.
Now this is where Groundhog Day really sets in. “Do you work close by?” inquires the 20-something young slip of a girl. I pretend I have not heard her, making it known she is disturbing my reading time, by looking up and stating “PARDON?” She repeats the question. “No,” I answer. I really don’t need to clarify further. After all I answered this same question the last five visits. Nose back in book. “Going out tonight?” She obviously didn’t get my not-so-subtle body language. Again, I make a production of looking up and proclaiming, “PARDON?” We go through the sequence, as if reading from a script of Beauty and the Beast (I know you all think I am the Beast………….). Again I answer “NO”, but I do put on a pleasant little smile. Don’t want her thinking I am some sort of bitch…
In my mind I am mulling over how stupid this question really is. Going out!?! It is already 7pm and she is just starting the colour, which takes at least two hours. Then there is the cut and the blow dry. I will be lucky to escape just before 10pm at this rate. Just because she doesn’t go out until midnight, doesn’t mean this ageing grumpy woman does.
Back to book.
“What are you reading?” Does she ever give up?!? Blind Faith – it is Ben Elton’s new book. “Nah, haven’t heard of him.” Well of course you wouldn’t have, I muse. I begin to explain the plot. I actually think it is a great book and would like to enlighten this young lass. However, my attempts fail. She now thinks Blind Faith is science fiction, complete with UFOs and aliens. It helped to make the story more interesting, or was I just wishing for a UFO to come and collect her?
At long last the colour is done. Funnily enough it is now me who resembles an alien, with a head full of tin foil. I look like I am trying to connect with the mother ship by some bizarre electronic force, using electro static brainwaves. Beam me up Scotty… I jiggle about trying to get comfortable, as I wait for the colour to take.
Just when I think I can last no longer, along comes Mr Camp 2008, and escorts me to the basin for a wash. This is better. I look forward to some banter that only a gay hairdresser can deliver, perhaps even some celebrity gossip. Again I luck out. He regales stories of how he is applying to a reality TV show for hairdressers. He doesn’t want to be a hairdresser you know, he has plans, big plans and he is going to be a famous actor. Well why don’t you practice and lets see if you can pretend to be someone interesting? Oh well, at least he gives a good massage.
Back to torture device known as funky chair. I make a firm decision that I must escape this place as quickly as possible. A quick trim and I am out of here. No blow dry, after all “I’m not going out tonight”. Along comes the cutter. We talk about what we could do, but in the end it is a trim, same style as usual. Anything else will take too long and I am on a mission. How quickly can I make my exit?
Ahh I can see the finish line, the adrenalin starts to pump. I begin to disrobe. She has finished cutting and I have made it clear NO BLOW DRY. “I’ll just give it a little dry so we can check if the colour is okay.” No point really. Even if it is a total disaster, I don’t have another three hours of my life that I can devote to my hair tonight. My bum just couldn’t cope. She picks up the hairdryer. Like a loaded gun she points at my head and pulls the trigger. The look on my face says it all, but she doesn’t stop, she is high from the bleach fumes, made aromatic from the heat. This is a woman on a mission to give me a blow dry. I can see I will have to resort to higher tactics. I get angry. Is she just trying to give me a blow dry in order to then charge me for one, or is she a perfectionist looking out for my best interests? I really don’t care- I just wanna get out of this place… if it’s the last thing I ever do (all sing along now…). I stand. I turn to face her. We are eye to eye. NO blow dry thank you. Smile, or is that a smirk?
I have won this battle. She turns the hairdryer off and replaces it in the holster, ready for the next victim.
I step out into the cool summer night and take a deep breath. It is all over, for another eight weeks or so. I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window, and giggle. After nearly three hours, I look like a drowned rat – not like the girl from the Salon Selectives ad at all. At least Dave knows better than to make any comment other than how beautiful I look.
Posted in Random ramblings |