Hair. It often says a lot about a person. People pay a pretty penny to get their hair styled like celebrities, entire lines of beauty products are devoted to its maintenance and upkeep. It can define an era (the Tina Turner), it can define a social class (the frat swoop), it can be a social phenomenon (the mullet). It can make or break you.
Which is why I’ve never been one to care at all about my hair. Frankly, in the words of Wendy (more on her later), I am low maintenance usually towel drying and using my hands as a substitute comb. I’ve never used any hair product despite the incessant encouragement and sales pitches by every Hair Cuttery in the metropolitan area. I also like to think that I’m pragmatic when it comes to haircuts. It is one of the few exchanges where I like to stick to a strict philosophy of transaction-based commerce, providing terse responses to any questions asked until it is implicitly understood that I’m not interested in learning about your burgeoning medical bills and not going to reveal my family history.
So, sparing the details, I went to get a haircut at a new barber shop, or as it turns out, more of a salon named Hair Reflections. And I don’t know what it is about me, but I’ve always had this special allure; something that emanates from my face, perhaps the twinkle in my eye (or more recently, the reflection of the braces). It’s like I cast a Harry Potter veritaserum everywhere I go that has strangers young and old revealing their darkest truths.
Enter Wendy. Wendy seemed convivial at first, asking for my name, which she promptly forgot and asked for again. I forgave her and provided her with an out by referencing a psychology study that explained that people often forget a newly introduced person’s name because the brain is busy processing all of the new visual stimuli.
Psychology was the key to pandora’s box. Well, if you took psychology, did you ever learn about the psychology of suicide? Excuse me? Wendy, remember how less than a minute ago you didn’t know my name? No, I did not learn about the psychology of suicide. The reason I ask is because my girlfriend has really been mind-f*&#ed because her last two boyfriends both committed suicide. A reminder: I pay $15, you cut my hair. I didn’t come to barter, one haircut for one counseling session please.
Wendy proceeded to inform me of all the other joys of her life, starting with birth. You see, in 1964 they gave her mother a laxative before birth. Consequently, Wendy was almost conceived in the toilet. The optimist in me chimed in to tell her that at least it was only almost. On the show I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant a lady didn’t know she was pregnant until she actually birthed her child in the bowl. She was appropriately named Ariel.
I guess I should have known what I was getting myself into. The first sign was when Wendy, instead of using the hair dryer on me, used it to wisp her own hair and stare longingly at her reflection in the mirror.
Well Hair Reflections, consider this my hair reflection. I ain’t coming back.
Which is why I’ve never been one to care at all about my hair. Frankly, in the words of Wendy (more on her later), I am low maintenance usually towel drying and using my hands as a substitute comb. I’ve never used any hair product despite the incessant encouragement and sales pitches by every Hair Cuttery in the metropolitan area. I also like to think that I’m pragmatic when it comes to haircuts. It is one of the few exchanges where I like to stick to a strict philosophy of transaction-based commerce, providing terse responses to any questions asked until it is implicitly understood that I’m not interested in learning about your burgeoning medical bills and not going to reveal my family history.
So, sparing the details, I went to get a haircut at a new barber shop, or as it turns out, more of a salon named Hair Reflections. And I don’t know what it is about me, but I’ve always had this special allure; something that emanates from my face, perhaps the twinkle in my eye (or more recently, the reflection of the braces). It’s like I cast a Harry Potter veritaserum everywhere I go that has strangers young and old revealing their darkest truths.
Enter Wendy. Wendy seemed convivial at first, asking for my name, which she promptly forgot and asked for again. I forgave her and provided her with an out by referencing a psychology study that explained that people often forget a newly introduced person’s name because the brain is busy processing all of the new visual stimuli.
Psychology was the key to pandora’s box. Well, if you took psychology, did you ever learn about the psychology of suicide? Excuse me? Wendy, remember how less than a minute ago you didn’t know my name? No, I did not learn about the psychology of suicide. The reason I ask is because my girlfriend has really been mind-f*&#ed because her last two boyfriends both committed suicide. A reminder: I pay $15, you cut my hair. I didn’t come to barter, one haircut for one counseling session please.
Wendy proceeded to inform me of all the other joys of her life, starting with birth. You see, in 1964 they gave her mother a laxative before birth. Consequently, Wendy was almost conceived in the toilet. The optimist in me chimed in to tell her that at least it was only almost. On the show I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant a lady didn’t know she was pregnant until she actually birthed her child in the bowl. She was appropriately named Ariel.
I guess I should have known what I was getting myself into. The first sign was when Wendy, instead of using the hair dryer on me, used it to wisp her own hair and stare longingly at her reflection in the mirror.
Well Hair Reflections, consider this my hair reflection. I ain’t coming back.
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