There is no greater dichotomy in a woman’s life than how confident she should feel sitting in a hair salon chair, and the reality of actually being there and feeling like a little wet rat.Â
By definition, this is your time to be pampered, complemented, massaged and waited on hand and foot. But really, you find yourself paying through the nose to wear a silly little cape, have your hair slicked back to the point where the resemblance between your head and an egg is absolutely uncanny and stick your head in a sink only to stare at yourself for over an hour in the most atrocious lighting known to womankind. I mean really, in no other setting have I seen so much texture on my skin, nor looked so ghostly and pale, all while counting every single pore on my face.
At this point in the appointment, I generally tend to question my entire existence as a human being. I begin to ask, who am I? What am I doing spending so many hours here? Is this what I always look like to the rest of the world? Should I cut bangs? (The answer is no; the answer pertaining to my unevenly curly hair and bangs is always no).Â
And I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like for the colored hair girlies to sit there with a mohawk of foils plastered to their heads for hours. You ladies truly embody the phrase, “God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers.” I salute you.
Somehow, this universal experience of womanhood remains an enigma to me. There has to be a better way of getting one’s hair done. From the extensive polling I’ve done on the topic (i.e. consulting my boyfriend and my brother), no boy shares this humbling experience at the barber shop. I am convinced that there must be some kind of covert ulterior motive to the disparaging air of the entire female salon experience. Is it to keep our self esteem down in order to keep us coming back? To keep our egos in check and feeling like we need another visit? I need answers.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I adore my hair stylist. She’s young, fun and always a good time. It feels like I get to talk to my best friend for two hours. So, despite the dichotomy of the entire experience, getting my haircut remains one of my favorite luxury treats that I look forward to for the weeks leading up to it. However, I might have to have a word or two with Anya about softening up that heinous lighting.