After careful scientific study, I've discovered that women at hair salons fall into one of two categories:
1) Those who drone incessantly,
and
2) Me.
It is not clear to me exactly why women feel compelled to chatter at hair salons. Perhaps the reason is that nobody at home is listening to them. This makes logical sense, because neither children nor husbands are credited with large attention spans.
Possibly these women are merely capitalizing on a captive audience. Trapped in swivel chairs with foiled heads, we have no choice but to suffer the 'Me Monologues.’ Recently I endured a 40-minute narrative about a woman’s patio redesign. As she described her new Viking grill, I wanted to stab her with the rotisserie and roast her over an open flame.
I don't delude myself thinking that my hairdresser is keen to know the details of my life. Frankly, I’m just not that interesting. Furthermore, I recently had cause to question her dedication to my well-being in general. Let me explain:
I am cursed with unruly, curly hair. On a good day, it resembles Michael Jackson's do in "The Wiz." On a bad day my frizz can reach the ozone layer. As such, I’ve been contemplating skipping the mortgage payment and getting it straightened.
Unfortunately, now that I have witnessed the procedure, all bets are off. Apparently, the technique involves stroking hair with burning fire pokers and creating a billowing cloud of toxic steam. I know for a fact that the steam is toxic because I asked my hair dresser about it:
Me: "What is that?"
Helen: "She's having her hair straightened."
Me: "Why are the technicians wearing face masks?"
Helen: "The smoke is toxic.”
Me: "Then why isn’t the client wearing a face mask too?”
Helen: "Who?"
I'm thinking that client safety is not the hair professional's prime directive.
I like nail salons more than hair salons. For the most part nobody there speaks English and people are roaming around giving free massages. But it is a place with its own perils.
Consider, for example, nail gels. Their application involves placing your hand directly underneath a UV lamp. Ironically, the same rays that melt the polar ice cap can also adhere a permanent french manicure. Who knew?
Given the annoying and dangerous nature of personal grooming, why are we so attached to it? Why do some women stay with their hairdressers longer than their husbands?
Notwithstanding the persistent ramblings of narcissistic ninnies, I relish the salon experience. It's a 40 minute interlude free of cooking, cleaning, cajoling, arguing, and putting out. It's a Zen zone with a blow dry. And it is the price we pay in the Age of Maintenance.
tlc
