I hate going to the hairdresser, which is why I don’t do it very often. The reason for this aversion is the hairdresser’s reputation of yakking away constantly and asking questions about my private life. I really don’t like to talk about myself (blogging about myself is the exception for some mysterious reason), and I’m not very good at talking with strangers. Plus, and this is a big plus, I hate having to make an effort to look somewhat presentable, I hate to look like I’ve tried to make an effort, because who am I kidding? Yes, that is my somewhat low self-esteem raising its squeaky voice there. She sounds like a twat, doesn’t she?
But yesterday, I went to the hairdresser, because my lion’s mane was about to consume me. It was time, I told myself. The shampoo girl asked me this: “Would you like me turn on the massage?” (in the chair-thingy) and “Have you not been here before?” I could live with that. I could even live with the fact that she smelled like she’d just been on a cigarette break, because she worked on in silence. Then she blow-dried my hair until my face disappeared, and she did not speak once.
Then the hairdresser took over. We talked about my hair. And then my hair. And a bit more about my hair. And in between talking about my hair, she was concentrating really hard on her work of cutting my hair. And shampoo girl gave me coffee, and I actually quite enjoyed it. Then the hairdresser made a braid and gave me a few tips on styles and hair products, and that was it..!!!
And I didn’t even try to gather my hair in a ponytail the moment I stepped outside of the salon – to make it look like I hadn’t been trying to make an effort to look good. But I had. And I did. And I might just return sooner than usual.