I went to the hairdresser today. It’s not something I enjoy and – in a way – I feel a sense of shame that I can’t confess to enjoying having something done to me which many women seem to enjoy and look forward to!
I put having my hair ‘done’ on a par with going to the dentist – except at the dentist one does not have to endure multiple mirror images of one’s teeth whilst having them attended to (or maybe that fetish hasn’t quite reached my dentist – yet).
I don’t know where my anxiety regarding hairdressers and hair salons began but it may be something to do with the fact that I don’t have the ‘right’ hair. When I look around at women in general, their hair seems to be generally well-behaved, fine, and really rather generally ‘amenable’ and ‘amiable’ and – further – being the ‘right’ type of hair with regard to hairdressers’ requirements.
My hair, on the other hand, is ‘difficult’: thick, wiry, course, dry …… one could go on – but, basically, it isn’t what’s appreciated, admired or – indeed – welcomed, at the hair salon. I’m usually greeted with an air of distaste and unacceptablility due to my hair doing what Nature intended rather than having been made to conform by way of straightening irons and ‘products’ and so on.
Today, when I answered my stylist’s probing question as to what it was I would “like today”, I answered: “layers”, to which the stern response was to question the very idea of ‘layers’ with my untamed, thick, wild – and very ‘un-stylised’ hair.
Fifty minutes later, however, I got ‘layers’. The sort of layers I wanted. My rebellious hair has been tamed for the time being – until it is washed and left to its own devices – once again 😉