but, i just need a haircut.
i want to talk about being a girl ... and going to the hairdresser.
sure, we all chat with whoever's cutting our hair. we want to know who this person is, and they, in turn want to know about us. fine, sure, whatever.
not for me. i'm not a gossip girl. i've never really cared to ask all the right questions to find out about people that i'll see for an hour on a tuesday every two months. you know? i don't fuckin care.
i tip well, and i don't care. balances out, right?
until last october when i went into the salon to which i now go to get my haircut every six to eight weeks.
i sat down first and got the best shampooing of my life. i was jell-o. they had to spoon me out of the chair.
then onto my haircut ... she was an older woman with eyebrows that made you think ... maybe she'll pop up and down like one of those mini-plastic-rubbery domes that you flip inside out and wait to jump. that's how high she raises her eyebrows. i now find it amusing. at first, little scared.
she's cutting my hair, and as soon as she gets the formula for what i want.... boom!
it's psychological blitzkrieg! i never fuckin saw her coming. poking and prodding with questions that delve deeper that i answer, not only for fear that she needs to know to prevent damager to my hairstyle but out of sheer shock value ... i never saw her coming.
that, and ... she makes eye contact in the mirror. why does that freak me out? i don't know, but it does.
half an hour later, i step out of the door, a bit intimidated to look back ... almost violated, wronged ... knowing that that woman in there with her scissors and her layers and her masterful blowdrying .... she knows way too much about me now.
but i go back to those nice irish girls who serve me tea and give me bad magazines, and i wait for Her to come over and take out her scissors.
she's good. she's real good.
