I had cause to go to the hairdresser. Hair that grows tends to force such action on a fairly regular and annoying basis. I also had the now requisite waxing and plucking of eyebrows, lip and chin. Menopause and fading eyesight has me paying for extra maintenance services these days. I know men get nose hair and wispy bits sprouting from ears, but somehow it doesn’t seem quite so troublesome to them. Somehow the hair has gained permission to be on their male faces, but not on the female face. No guesses as to who made up that rule.
Once I had a boss who always had a couple of hairs sprouting like wire bristles from the ridge of his nose. Why he didn’t shave them off with the rest of his facial hair, I have no idea, but it was a constant distraction when speaking with him. Don’t look at the nose hair, don’t look at the nose hair, but of course I did. Always.
I like driving to my hairdresser at she is in the university district. I started going to my stylist several years ago as she was convenient when I worked at the university. Now she is a habit, and I am afraid I would offend her if I ceased going to her. And bless her, she never goes on about my thick hair until the very end when she expects me to fall to the floor and kiss her feet for bringing some order back to my hair. If I went elsewhere I would also have to apologise for making the stylist work for her money and also experience the sensation of being made to feeling like a reject with a social disease for having thick hair that grows very quickly. I don’t have the energy to train a new stylist.
Anyway, that is not really why I like driving to the salon. I like driving to the area where the salon is situated. It is in the university district. It is always so full of life, especially during the week, with students coming and going, lots of energy. And crazy clothes. Once I passed a monk in a brown habit walking home after the night before. He wasn’t a real monk, I suspect he had been playing monks and nuns and was just contemplating whether he was going to hell in a hand basket for what he had been doing a few hours before. He looked hung over, but satisfied, if you know what I mean.
Today, I passed an apartment block and over the balcony of one apartment was a row of flags. I only recognised the Australian flag, and can only guess that the other flags were various African flags as they were very pretty and African nations always seem to have lovely colours in their flags. The flags made me miss… I don’t know… everything? Youth, hopes, another world?
Shortly afterwards, I was a little miffed as I couldn’t park right outside the salon, as usual. I think it is exam time, and most students are not at lectures, and so many cars were parked on the street, as they rent 32 students to an apartment. I had to walk down a hill to the salon, and you know what that meant don’t you? I had to walk back up the hill on the return trip. Not happy, Jan. I don’t like unexpected or unplanned exercise. Heck, I don’t like exercise at all. Sometimes I will move from one end of the couch to the other and that is enough excitement for one week.
The salon is a little too pink, white, black and Parisienne for my tastes, but they treat me well. If I say I don’t feel like talking they will leave me stew. They make me coffee on their whiz bang coffee machine, even if they sprinkle way too much chocolate over it. Luckily I am sitting in front of a mirror and so can lick the chocolate powder off my top lip. Or chin.
While I am getting my hair washed they turn on their massage chair and so I get a pseudo back massage. I also get a head massage between the conditioning and rinse. I can trot off to be waxed and tortured with the foils in my hair, so all the red blotches on my face from where the wax is ripped away, is faded by the time my hair is styled and I am jettisoned out the door. All in all, it is a pretty good experience.
However, I find it utterly exhausting as I have to be nice for a solid two hours, and that is just about the maximum level of endurance for a Flamingo Dancer of any colour. Two hours of polite, small talk. Two hours of pretending I am nice to my husband, that I have a social life and that I care about others and their lives. In fact, that I am like all the other women who appear to have no issue with hair salon socialising. Hard work.
I always need a little lie down when I arrive home. This is kind of a shame, because I have just had my hair styled and it ruffles my hair. However, needs must win, and so I have a little cup of tea and a good lie down before going through the regular routine of explaining to Mr FD how a “hair cut” can cost $155. If I was a half bald man with little more than a ring of hair above my ears, I am sure my hair would only cost $25 too, but then he might not be pleased to be married to a half bald man with little more than a ring of hair above his ears. Perfection requires detail, I say, but he still doesn’t understand.
It is the game we play, husbands and wives, men and women. Just one of many, but there you go. Life is like that.
And so was this day.