|Smile like you mean it!|
The thing is that when I go out to get my hair done, it's like a once-every-three-month break from the kids and all-around-general time to remember what it feels like to give a shit about my appearance. So when I go to a salon, the last thing I want to see, quite frankly, are your goddamn kids. And, people, the children in this salon very nearly outnumbered the adults. And they weren't just regular antsy-because-the-salon-is-boring kids. They were OMGSTFU kids. When I was in the chair getting stripes applied (or, I guess they're called highlights), a young girl approached my stylist and asked for a drink. The stylist then stopped doing my hair to fetch this child a drink.
|Foil. There was foil involved.|
After that, the stylist dropped a glob of hair dye on my skirt, so that kind of sucked. Or was awesome, I guess, since she didn't charge me for dying my skirt.
|LOTS of motherloving foil.|
Mother: Aidan! You can't sit on that chair!
Aidan: WHY NOT?!
Mother: Because some lady is getting her hair done there.
Aidan: [Not moving] There's no one sitting here!
Mother: Aidan, you can't sit in that chair.
Aidan: [Twirling and spinning and ignoring like a champ.] WHY?
Mother: Aidan. Because some lady is going to get her hair done there.
Mother: [Urgently.] Some lady, Aidan! You need to get up!
Aidan: But there's no one sitting here!
Mother: Aidan! You need to get up from that chair!
This went on for several more minutes, and I'm pretty sure adorable little Aidan never got out of the motherfucking chair. Then someone showed up with a newborn and there was much talk about a dirty diaper. I was ready to get out of my chair and change the baby myself for the love of god.
Then the stylist smeared hair dye into my ear, which I found odd, but appreciated since it dulled out the noise. (I'm pretty sure the dye is still there, actually.)
Eventually, somehow, my hair was finished and blown dry, and I went to the counter to pay as they started closing down the shop. I had cash on me, so I handed the receptionist the bills. She put it in the register and said, "Thanks! You're all set!"
Me: Oh...but can I have a receipt?
Her: [Confused face.] Oh. [Staring at computer, then back at me.]
Me: Is the computer off already?
Her: Well...no, but we usually only give receipts for credit cards and stuff.
Her: I can...write you one?
So, I left the salon, with a handmade receipt in my hand, a brown spot on my skirt, and a headache the size of this one highlight on the left side of my head.
|Do you see the blonde chunk? TELL ME YOU SEE THE BLONDE CHUNK.|
I guess it doesn't look TOO bad. Though it's not quite what I asked for. And I'm down one skirt. And I paid for it all, too. There's that. The paying to be annoyed and having my clothing destroyed and a not-quite-what-I-wanted hair job.
Oh, and here's another picture from this morning, the way I "style" it. I think you can see it better how the blonde stripes are starting to eat the rest of my hair.
I mean, seriously. It practically looks like I got my hair FROSTED.
But it's better than it was, right? I mean, the cut anyway. SIGH. I should stop complaining, I suppose. Maybe. Next time.
(And here is where you tell me that it hardly looks different at all, and then I respond in a manner that suggests my instability and obsession with detail. Right? This is usually what my husband and I do.)
Anyway, I've got a few months to find a new salon. Or move back to New York.