I love getting my hair cut, trimmed, styled . . . brushed even. However, I do not love getting that weighty stare as the hairdresser sees what he has to work with: true, natural, God-given curly hair.
Excuse me for my unfortunate genetic schematics. When I was born, I had no intention of offending you. Honest. Scout’s honor (though that might not have much clout; I was only a girl scout for a year).
Personally, I’ve come to terms with my frizzy, dizzy, busy, curly hair. It’s a nest of knots and kinks and last night’s meals . . . plural. But, whatever! YOLO, am I right? Did I do that right? I don’t think I did that right; can I try again? Peking duck you! No. I don’t think that’s right either. I’m so sorry. Anyway . . .
. . . I got a new haircut! OK, it’s not so much new as it is the same haircut I always ask for, but regardless . . . I wish there was a place where I didn’t have to feel apologetic from entrance to exit. Sadly, I keep going to the same place, so it’s warranted that I get the same reaction each time. Shame on me.
I’m pretty sure other people haven’t had this problem, so let me share my experiences.
He gestures to a chair and offers me a seat. A cape is draped, unflatteringly, around my neck. We are ready to commence the cutting!
I watch my hairdresser through the mirror. I am all eyes, and they’re all watching you, buddy. Every. Last. One. So of course I notice how he sighs heavily and quickly glances at me with every curl he picks up before straightening it. OK, hairdresser, that’s a little unnecessary and a tad overdramatic don’t you think? It’s hair! It’s not a 2 ton truck. Truck you! No. No, I don’t mean that.
If I could cower without getting the worst haircut of my life, I would. But I sit still and proper. And I smile. I smile at him every chance I get. That’s nice, right?? Because I know. God, I know. My hair is curly. I have curly hair. You don’t have to look at me like I’m to blame and like I don’t deal with it every day. I know! It’s a son of a . . . glitch.
So, he always straightens my hair like he’s doing me a favor. Hey, friend, I’m the one doing you a favor. I’m giving you business and paying for a tiny percentage of your rent/groceries/life, you choose.
And every time he’s done I can physically see the relief enter his body as I leave his chair. I can almost see the thought bubbles popping out of his head: Done! Got that one knocked out of the way. Good riddance–glad I won’t have to see her for another 3-6 months.
Seriously, I just wish there was a place where I didn’t have to feel immeasurably sorry for whatever I call an excuse growing from my scalp. Because a) I’m not sorry.
There’s no b, just a. I’m not sorry for my curly hair. And even though my hair is the one that’s in ringlets, maybe you’re the one who needs to take a chill pill and unwind.
On that note, my hair is still long and it’s OK. I’m getting a little bored of the same ol’ same ol’. Gotta figure out a new style next time. Gotta flatten out the details, am I right?? Did you see what I did there? It’s wordplay . . . I have curly hair . . . my hairdresser always uses a flat iron . . . I’m here all week.