Ma Hayer
I hate haircuts so much. I'm filled with dread the minute I make the appointment.
I sit in the huge, uncomfortable armchairs and look at all the various customers, thinking: 'If I was the hairdresser, I wouldn't cut his hair'. 'Gross, just look at that woman's hair. I'd never touch it!' And then I start wondering what the hairdressers think when they have to touch my hair. I mean, it's clean, but I find something so fundamentally wrong about handling a stranger's hair. I feel worst for the poor girls who wash the hair before it's cut.
Then, I don't mind the talking. I really don't. As long as the hairdresser initiates it, I'm quite happy to listen to her suggestions about my hair, comments on the new shop layout, and reasons for transferring from the Gillitts branch to the Westville one. I'll tell her about which uni I go to, what I'm studying, and why I think the Men's Health magazine is a useless buy. So, the actual cutting experience isn't a problem.
The worst bit, however, the very worst part of the hairdresser experience is walking out the shop. Any feelings of freedom are squished by the pachyderm-like realisation of what the mop on my head looks like. I hate the way my hair looks after every single cut I've ever had. It's been washed and conditioned with industrial strength shampoo and conditioner by the hair-cleaning girl, it's been fluffed around and trimmed by the hairdresser, and it dries so quickly, leaving a soft and silky, yet fluffy and dense, mass on my head. An additional spiky annoyance is the small pieces of hair which weren't caught by the brush, and sit under your collar for the entire afternoon until you get home.
I sit in the huge, uncomfortable armchairs and look at all the various customers, thinking: 'If I was the hairdresser, I wouldn't cut his hair'. 'Gross, just look at that woman's hair. I'd never touch it!' And then I start wondering what the hairdressers think when they have to touch my hair. I mean, it's clean, but I find something so fundamentally wrong about handling a stranger's hair. I feel worst for the poor girls who wash the hair before it's cut.
Then, I don't mind the talking. I really don't. As long as the hairdresser initiates it, I'm quite happy to listen to her suggestions about my hair, comments on the new shop layout, and reasons for transferring from the Gillitts branch to the Westville one. I'll tell her about which uni I go to, what I'm studying, and why I think the Men's Health magazine is a useless buy. So, the actual cutting experience isn't a problem.
The worst bit, however, the very worst part of the hairdresser experience is walking out the shop. Any feelings of freedom are squished by the pachyderm-like realisation of what the mop on my head looks like. I hate the way my hair looks after every single cut I've ever had. It's been washed and conditioned with industrial strength shampoo and conditioner by the hair-cleaning girl, it's been fluffed around and trimmed by the hairdresser, and it dries so quickly, leaving a soft and silky, yet fluffy and dense, mass on my head. An additional spiky annoyance is the small pieces of hair which weren't caught by the brush, and sit under your collar for the entire afternoon until you get home.