hairdresser from hell

So I got a haircut yesterday.

I've never liked getting haircuts, so tend to get them on the spur of the moment, never making appointments ahead of time. As a result, I tend to get a wide range of different hairdressers.

Why do I hate haircuts so much? Because they take so much time. Because I despise the smalltalk that usually goes along with it. Because they cost so much money. Because I don't like sitting in front of a mirror whose reflection I can't see (I'm pretty blind without my glasses) while a stranger does mysterious things to my head.

With my sister-in-law's wedding coming up next weekend and the fact that I could no longer see past the hair in front of my eyes, I figured it was about that time again.

Patrick had cut my hair before, just a bang/fringe cut a month or two ago. At that time, he was quiet and efficient. He must have been so tickled that I decided to come back for a full haircut, however, because he had metamorphed into Mr. Loquacious.

When I realized my mistake, it was too late. I was trapped in the chair, my hair wet and pinned, Patrick hovering around me waving a pair of scissors and careening from one conversational topic to another.

He was going to be a writer someday too, he told me, and then proceeded to describe the highly convoluted and violent plot of the novel he planned to write. He talked about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, jumping from one seemingly random episode plot summary to the next. He talked about Harry Potter (even though he had never read the books or seen the movie), Star Trek (our government is like the Borg), the graphic details of various violent murder and horror movies. He told me that, like in the Matrix, the world we are living in is not real, that someone is controlling the illusion around us. He genuinely seemed to believe this.

I was amused by the conversation at first, somewhat disturbed by the end. Also mildly irritated, since it was obvious that Patrick was so distracted by his own conversation that the haircut was taking much longer than it was supposed to. He'd pause from time to time, waving his scissors around in the air as he loudly emphasized some emotional point. No one else in the room was saying anything; I had to wonder if they were fascinated or as horrified as I was.

His next client arrived but had to be passed off onto another hairdresser because he was still working on me. Let me point out that I wasn't asking for an elaborate haircut. As usual, I had emphasized that I didn't like fussing over my hair, that I just wanted a bang trim and a couple inches off the back to make things look neater.

Despite my earlier plea, the haircut took about an hour and a half. When he realized that I wasn't as cheerful as I was in the beginning he finally began focussing on the haircut. "I can't figure out if you're sad or just tired," he told me. I said I was tired. I didn't want to tell someone wielding a sharp implement near my head that I found him incredibly irritating.

Unfortunately, he turned out to be the kind of hairdresser that loves to fuss. Maybe he figured that even though I said I didn't like having my hair fussed over too much, that I REALLY meant that I DID like being fussed over. I'm sure if I had let him, he would have measured and cut each of my hairs individually as well as coating each with a range of hairsprays and conditioners.

When he was nearly done, he asked if he could add stuff to my hair.

"No, thank you."

"How about just a little?" He sounded pleading.

"No thanks."

"Oh, c'mon girl. How about just a little bit of conditioner? It'll make your hair SO soft and shiny..."

(Yes, he kept calling me "girl" throughout.)

Tired of saying no and foolishly swayed by the "soft and shiny" argument, I let him add conditioner. He ended up adding other stuff as well, and by the time he was finished, I felt like I was wearing a helmet. I also felt as if my entire scalp had been scrubbed with steel wool, what with all the fussing and pinning and brushing over the hour and a half.





It's incredibly frustrating. I don't think I'm a particularly hair-conscious person. My idea of dolling up for a big event is to run a brush through my hair and make sure that I don't have anything stuck between my teeth. I rarely wear makeup, and I prefer to let my hair air-dry.

All I want is a hairdresser who will cut my hair, and then get me out with a minimum of conversation and chemicals. I don't go to the hairdresser's for psychotherapy or chitchat or to catch up on the latest media gossip. I JUST WANT A HAIRCUT, FOR PETE'S SAKE.

Am I really asking for that much?

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Today's Blatherpics:

	Planter of basil at Reid's and Luisa's place. I love basil. When we lived in the country, I grew basil and would put bunches in small containers around the house, like wildflowers, just so the fragrance would fill each room. I love fresh basil in soups, stews, sandwiches, sauces.
	Sara just before we head in to see Mamma Mia a few days ago.
	Reid, Luisa and Rita last night.
	Andrew and me, a few days ago.