Self-reflection at the hairdresser’s

Going to the hairdresser’s is a complicated process.

Going to the hairdresser’s is not simply a matter of having a haircut you would like. It’s about understanding the jargon of the people working there, and trying very hard not to feel like a wild monkey whose notion of ‘hair care’ is limited to good shampoo and conditioner. It’s about guessing all the different perms they suggest should be done to your hair and learning to politely say ‘no’, without sounding, once again, like a savage who ‘just’ wants to get a haircut. It’s about having to answer all their simple questions and telling yourself it’s okay if they think you’re a total nerd who doesn’t care about hair. It’s amazing how one can feel so belittled in just a matter of an hour, an hour and a half, when actually paying for this service.

The thing is, however, these people are trying so hard to make me feel at ease. They talk to me and ask me random questions so that I won’t feel uncomfortable. They offer drinks and snacks. I even saw someone give an arm massage to a girl who was getting a perm, or something that involved a tarantula-like machine over her head. I would be mortified if a hairdresser offered me an arm massage at a hairdresser’s. Not because he or she wouldn’t be any good at it, but because I would feel this is not the service I paid for and that shouldn’t be part of his/her job, and I don’t need to nor want to be pampered like I’m some royalty.

I wish I could just go in, get my hair done, pay, and come out. But now I have to smile, ravage my brains to find some witty or funny or sexy comments and answers to their questions. The fact that I usually go to the hairdresser’s when I have nothing to do, thus without make up and with my flip flops, makes all this worse, when basically everyone else around me in that area, hairdressers and customers included, are dressed up to their nines.

I also like having my money’s worth, not like some of the stereotypes assigned to girls.


So I usually go for a drastic change, which usually involves lots of hair being cut off. But making this decision means I eventually have to face the million-dollar question ‘What happened? A change of heart?’, which usually implies I just got dumped. I don’t know why, people are just convinced that a hair cut involves being heartbroken. Believe me, if I were heartbroken, I wouldn’t be wasting my time getting a haircut. I would be crying my eyes out by myself or getting pissed ass drunk with a drink-buddy or something. Sometimes I just want to answer ‘I wish I had a boyfriend in the first place to get dumped from’ but well, that’s a bit insensitive. No matter how many times I smile and say no, nothing happened to my poor fragile heart, they keep asking me what made me want to cut my hair.

I don’t know. The change of heart I had was that I wanted a hair cut. I was bored. I had time in my hands. Do I need a profound philosophical reason to explain why I want your scissors in my hair?

Anyways, this is what I originally went for.

Anne-hathaway-chanel-face anne-hathaway-valentino-gi emma-watson-marie-claire-1 images (1)

The next thing I hear is I have a chubby face (which, they tell me in the nicest way possible), so some hair cuts just won’t do, sorry. I know, alas, I have a chubby face. I want to believe I still have my baby fat, but who still has baby fat at 28 years old? People also tell me that having a chubby face makes me look younger, and I thought it did work at some point, but these days, people see me for my real age, or even older, so screw that. I know I was aiming high, and now that I look back, I think the hairdresser really meant ‘You’re no Emma Watson or Anne Hathaway, and I’m no magician.’, but of course, in a much nicer way. My baby face was just not sexy enough. I know it, but it still hurts when somebody else says it. Well, at least they complimented on my body… which was worth the breath-sucking in I was actively and consciously performing the whole time not to let my muffin top show. Even if they didn’t mean it, it was still nice to hear it.

Oh well, I tried.

Conclusions of the day:

I’m not Emma Watson or Anne Hathaway. *sigh*

I wish I were pretty and sexy. *sigh*

Gosh, Emma Watson and Anne Hathaway are so beautiful! *sigh*


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