I may look like your every day basic pretentious Dallas millenial, ubering around the Uptown, snapchatting my every move, but that’s only because I am your every day basic pretentious Dallas millenial, ubering around the Uptown, snapchatting my every move.
And the place where I get my hair done speaks to that.
I go to a hair salon in West Village. I learned the hard way in college that not all hair dressers are created equal. You literally get what you pay for, and disclaimer: you wake up with your hair every single day. You want to look at it and not want to die. Ideally. So I don’t feel bad, guilty, or get shopper’s remorse from shoveling out a portion of the doll hairs I make for a decent hair job.
My hair place also makes me feel pampered. And mama loves her that pamper life.
When you walk in, you get a robe. A ROBE. Not a backwards (frontwards?) cape. YOU CAN DO THINGS WITH YOUR HANDS, #SNUGGIE. They provide you with “lemon infused” water, also known as water with lemon cut up in it. But how chic is the word “infused.”
There are posters of seemingly makeup-less, chic models with impossibly healthy hair. They’re all near a waterfall. Then your receptionist, who has more class than Siri Cruise, walks you to your stylist’s chair, where you won’t find pictures of their children, drawings by their children, or photos of their wedding day.
There are stylists for cutting and stylists for coloring. Because why would a fireman take your tonsils out. Why would a doctor save your cat in the tree. Everything just makes sense now. Everything in the world ever.
And every stylist is the least basic human. They all look like a NYLON model or an Austin local. It’s like living inside an episode of Portlandia.
I was actually staring at one of the stylists because she looked like a 98 lb version of FKA Twigs. And I was trying to read the novel that was her neck tat.
I saw ear gauges I probably could have wiggled my entire body through, with a lil crisco. Another stylist had a pink bob. A PINK BOB. Another one looked like the Dallas Wardrobe blogger, with perfectly sweet and southern split-end free brown hair. I literally looked for split ends. Nothing.
I especially liked my stylist today. I’m typically nervous when the receptionist assigns a male to do my hair, because male hairdressers are typically really pushy and adventurous, and I don’t want blue highlights or a half-shaved head. I want basic ass high lights like the basic ass I am.
My stylist immediately took a look at my “honey hues” and said “Oh I’m gonna glaze you like a donut.” And I said oh.
He was chic and sassy and taller than God himself. But that’s not the reason I enjoyed him. I liked him because he literally did not say one unnecessary word to me my entire visit there. And if he did talk, it was usually funny.
So at the risk of sounding like a total bEEEYYYYYotch, I thoroughly enjoy it when I don’t have to make 45 minute small talk. Sometimes, after a long day of work (in an environment that is constant human contact), you want to just not talk. I like to not talk. Sometimes it’s nice to just sit there and not have to go through rush. What’s your major? Where are you from? Where did you go to college? Where do you work? How did you get that job? Do you know so and so? What are you doing this weekend? Will you babysit my child? What’s your father’s deepest darkest secret? What’s on your secret wedding Pinterest board? What do you weigh at the end of a fat day?
whtvr u get it
As I sat in the chair, with more foil in my hair than a plate of leftovers, basking in how much I liked my hairdresser, I had a thought. What if he’s not good at hair.
My phone was about to die, which added to the im-a-pathetic-millenial stress.
Then he washed out my color over the sink. He didn’t massage my head, but I’ll forgive him because I’m literally Mother Teresa.
He took me to the chair.
He blowdried my hair.
I SAW A LOT OF ROOTS.
LIKE AS IF MY HAIR WAS NEVER COLORED TYPE OF ROOTS. OH. OH . OH I SAID.
I’m the type of person that will not make the waiter take the chips back if they’re stale. I’m not going to make them take my food back if it’s wrong (i’m also not picky or allergic to anything so). I tipped my movers last year $100 because I felt bad for them (IT WAS IN AUGUST, THEY HAD TO CARRY MY WASHER AND DRYER THREE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS OKAY??). AKA, I have a hard time sticking up for myself against the retail/service industry if there is something I don’t like. Which is why all of my friends are huge bitches because balance is life.
So as he’s blow drying me, brushing the hair out, styling, I’m having the long back and forth internal battle in my head of exactly how I’m going to approach telling him I’m mad about my hair. I’ll call back tomorrow and say I think I need another appointment, at a discount because I went home and realized it’s not complete, no no, no, I’ll just tell him now, it’s too awkward to call back, yeah, I’ll say maybe it’s just the angle i’m looking at, but it seems a little fLaXiN around the scalp ecetera
He tells me it’s done.
“I love it!” I say.
Then I must have made a face or he is telepathic because he went into detail about my “high light shadows.” Apparently I waited too long to get my roots done, and now he’s going to have to play “catch up” with the shadows, something something, switch off partial/full, something something.
I said okay thank God. I made like 89 appointments in advance, paid the man, and left. Then I made really delicious zucchini pasta, because I’m an actual housewife. Bye.