Salon Time

Going to the salon to get highlights and a haircut is usually a two to three hour process. It’s not so much the time wasted I hate. Usually I read. And it’s not so much the forced small talk I have to make with the stylist. Making small talk is easy for me. Years of bartending and waiting have taught me that art. And usually I like the stylist. It’s not so much that sitting for three hours makes my knees hurt. I’ve been on long flights. It’s not so much being forced to stare at yourself in the mirror for countless hours as you go through varying degrees of beauty. To “Oh, Jesus!” to “Oh! Nice!”.

It’s usually just impatience. All those processes. The painstaking manner in which they cut your hair. Over and over. From different angles and different sides. And they’re good at it. I couldn’t do it. It’s an art form. From the mixing of the color all the way down to the blow out.

What would they do if after all that time, all that work, when they asked, “What do you think?” Their faces beaming with pride, knowing they nailed it.

“I love it!”

“Great!”

“Yeah! Now shave it all off.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Shave it all off.”

“You’re joking…right?”

“Nope. Deadly serious. C’mon. Pick up those clippers. Hell, Bic it for all I care.”

After some convincing, I’d have them shave it all off. Then I would collect my new hairstyle, scattered all over the chair and the floor, and put it in the plastic bag I brought with me. I would say, “Thanks!” and go to the front to pay for all the services and tip the stylist.

I would leave the salon with the employees all thinking, “What the fuck just happened?”. I wouldn’t be able to come back in my usual 6 to 8 weeks to explain. Because I’m bald now. It’s gonna take at least a year or so for me to need their services again.

And that’s the first thing I would do if I ever lost my mind.

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