My Trip to the Salon

The worst part is the beginning. The two ladies in Fantastic Sam's looked bored, but neither one got up to help me. So, after asking about the special of the day, I just said, "So.... 'either one of you free?" A Nicaraguan lady named Aleen chuckled and stood up, took my information, and led me to the chair.

Then comes the best part: The shampoo. I'm not one who enjoys being waited on by strangers, generally. That's the worst part of going out to eat for me. But I love having my hair shampooed. My tip is never based on how good my hair looks, but how good my scalp feels after being massaged. If I'd have had a fin, it would be in Aleen's pocket right now. I had to settle for 3 bucks, which is a good tip for a 13 dollar haircut, I suppose.

Salon chit-chat is hit and miss. The basic questions are "Where are you from?" "How long have you been doing this?" and "Do you think it'll rain/get hotter today?" Some stylists answer the second question in an offended way, as if they're surprised that I'm interested in their profession. And the truth is, I am. I can't cut a straight line (which might be perfect for today's hairstyles). Cutting hair properly is one of those things I will never venture to do, because failure is almost 100% assured.

The wet, split-ended strands at my feet are fun to look at. It's the most unfinal type of finality you'll probably ever see. "Well, it's done," I think, "but it will be back in a month." I guess you could also call that futility, but the smell of coconut and tea tree oil cheers me up too much to use words with a negative connotation.

Blow drying is the part of the experience in which I feel the most guilty. My hair is thick. Horse tail thick. Drying it takes twice the time of other women, but they can't charge extra, because their extra charges are only based on extreme length. That's another reason why I tip, I suppose.

Then comes the time when I might have to act, because even if I don't like a haircut, I can never being myself to say "I don't like it." At a restaurant, a waiter serves you food. He or she did not cook it, so it's not a problem to send it back. I'm not looking the creator in the eye. But the stylist worked hard, or at least did something I could never do on my own. Criticizing their work when it's probably very close to what I asked for seems cruel.

That was my afternoon. Want more futility? No matter how good a haircut looks, I have it up in a ponytail within the first half hour of leaving the salon. And people wonder why I never bother to pay more than 20 bucks.

I think I'll go eat the leftover scallops in my fridge.