So it was time.
I entered with some trepidation and a bit of hope.
My hair was pretty bad. It really couldn’t get worse.
I looked around at the organized chaos and wondered if I should walk away. Another look in the mirror and I knew I couldn’t.
I sit down in a sea of a beautifully made up women, decked to the nines from head to toe. I glance at my flared jeans and red t-shirt and wonder what I had been thinking. Clearly it had not been about my wardrobe.
As I gather my wits, I glance around at the system. I am sure there is one but it is as foreign to me as Arabic is. I notice looks being exchanged as one woman “demands” something, clearly amusing to those who understand her. I wish I understood.
I am signaled and soon the hair wash begins. So far so good. I am directed to my chair and my guy shows up. He looks at me with the towel on my head and says:
Volume! Big Volume! Lots of Layers!
And I wonder how he knows when he can’t see my hair.
Off goes the towel and then the shock or is it horror is revealed.
You need to colour your hair!
I look down sheepishly and meekly say that I want to see how this goes first.
Dismayed, he shakes his head and the scissors come out.
My head is yanked in every direction as he surfaces and resurfaces all around me as he gets the right angle for each and every strand. My hair is screaming for attention and attention it receives. Almost embarrassingly so.
I wonder how much more he can cut. I wonder how much longer he can cut.
I stand up. He jumps in front of me and cuts. I sit down. He crouches down and cuts. All the time, his perfectly coiffed hair never moves and nor does his chest hair, popping out from his half buttoned shirt, perfectly appointed to reveal.
I think I am getting too old for all this.
The manager walks over. Words are exchanged. Not nicely. I think my guy has been told to hurry up.
And there is no hurrying up my guy.
The posturing begins, looks are thrown and I am no longer under the radar. In fact, I am now on center stage and I don’t know my lines!
Now my guy has slowed down even more. The classic oppositional defiance has set in and each strand gets cut for the zillionth time.
And then I hear. My name is Mar Juana.
I will colour your hair next time.
It appears he is done. He walks away. I sit there. I don’t know what to do.
Slowly, or so it seems, I slink out of my chair and go to pay.
Oh and the tip? I am motioned to put it into the pocket of his shirt. The final act!
I walk out, sweaty and stressed, thankful it is over.
Jade takes a look at me and announces she can fix it.
Need I say more?