I am Sydney’s hair. Some would say that I am high maintenance, but hey isn’t all hair? I’ve been around for a long time and all things considered I’ve been good for her over the years. I may be thinner now, but most women would kill for that. I may be losing my color a tad, but that’s easily fixed. And I ask you, what hair doesn’t need to be cut and styled occasionally? But I digress. This is my account of it—m y detailed perspective of the whole damn salon thing.
Its torture I tell you. Sydney actually enjoys it. Getting me “done”. From the get go, I gear up for days to be drowned, soaped up, belittled, and embarrassed. Then I’m hung out to dry. And this old broad can work up a sweat! Last Tuesday was no different. Enter Kris. I will admit he’s a cutie pie and remarkably, not gay. I have to face him already wet, plastered down to her head. She’s sitting on the brown faux-leather chair in the narrow room, facing the mirror that reflects two of wet me. In front of cutie pie Kris. He’s cutting me. His hands are large and swift and my mind is racing. I hear them talking about me. Sydney wasn’t happy this time with my color, she wants more variation. Ha! Don’t we all? She’s never happy, this one. First I’m black, then I’m red. Red, black, red, black, brown, black, red, purple. What the fuck? Back in the 80’s I did time with “eggplant.” Lovely. Come ‘on, Syd! The cutting has stopped and part of me stays on the floor. Now I’m being walked into the other room for the nastiest component. This part stinks. Perched in another matching salon chair, assistant Jen carefully parts me in sections and slaps on a disgusting, cold, slimy chemical with the smell and look of crap. For thirty minutes I’m forced to remain exposed and degraded in this huge, although I will say tastefully, decorated room. Shivering, I attempt to ignore my quandary and start gawking around to amuse myself. I’m hair after all, what would you expect?
Jen set the timer and I’m marinating. 29 minutes. The sink area is eye-catching with the cherry cabinets—too bad they only hold tubes of torturous chemicals. Every shelf holds at least two hundred lined up like Nazi soldiers lying in wait to attack. Brushes soak innocently in blue Barbacide solution— waiting for their call to duty. 20 minutes. Sydney can’t resist the candy bowl on the small glass table in front of me. I see mini Snickers, Twix, Tootsie Rolls, whoa, girl, enough! Eavesdropping, another hair is being cut and his kid is flapping his jaws. Blah, blah, blah. Jesus kid, take a breath. Nobody cares. The stylist is nodding in their noncommittal way, “yeah, oh, uh-huh, yeah” trying to focus so she doesn’t lop off an ear. 13 minutes. Above me, I hear the radio in the ceiling performing an ironic tune. “Should I Stay or Should I Go”. How annoying is that? Like I have a choice here! 8 minutes.
Across the room I watch more hair being cut. This time it’s on a middle age white woman wearing athletic shoes. Ha! Don’t they all? The scanty hair looks embarrassed, too. All stuck down. What we go through for them. Her stylist is wearing beach pants with black patent high heels. What? “Fuck-me” shoes to cut hair? Get a life honey, go dangle your leg at a bar. 6 minutes. Still shivering. The ceiling radio now sings “Head over Feet.” How appropriate. Kris walks back in the room to mix more torture chemical. The tubes perk up. The brushes stand pathetically erect. 4 minutes. The woman behind me is yakking about her hair to the stylist. “Color, no layers this time, need a trim, looks awkward, I want it more straight”. Man, her hair looks mortified. Ding! That’s me! Into the sink I go to get this shit off. I love the fact that the hard sink hurts her neck. Sweet revenge. What? That’s it? I still have some chemical on me! Off we go back into the narrow room for the blow job. What? Manly Kris points the heat gun at me. Luckily I’m thin and this only lasts a moment. Cough, cough. That damn spray. No wonder I’m falling out. I’m done. Sydney smiles into the mirror. She likes me. Whatever.
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