Alpha to Omega

Going to the hairdresser is like going to church because they always make me feel like shit. I don’t much care for hairdressers—sorry, stylists—they have an attitude problem. They always do.

My mother always took me to the cheap places when I was a kid. I can’t say I really blame her, who can afford to pay $50 for a trim? Not I. So, my first real encounter with a stylist came when I was about fifteen. I was over at a friends house and her older sister was going to “school” (oh, how I love impenitent, undue mockery) to become one. I was blonde at the time, my natural colour, and my hair had a tendency to get stringy and, well, gross. I simply asked the stylist what she thought I should do with it. She took one look at me and with a (also impenitent and undue) scowl on her face replied: “You need product”. Ok, product. What product? Because of the scowl, I didn’t bother pursuing this any further.

The term kept coming up again and again. By this time, I was going to see stylists as often as I could afford to, but continued to go to the cheap places when I needed something simple done. Still though, there were the questions. What kind of shampoo was I using? Who did this last time? When was the last time I got it cut (tsk tsk)? Every question had the implication that I wasn’t doing anything right. In fact, I deserved to be bald. Yes, I took such terrible care of my hair that I deserved to have it all fall out.

So, I looked around at other people’s hair. I didn’t think my hair was in such bad shape comparatively. I could get a comb through it, it was shiny, it wasn’t visibly split endy. In fact, I had a friend whose hair I thought looked quite the picture of dry and damaged, so I must have been doing something right. But, the criticism continued: the disapproving looks, the references to “product (always singular)”. It got worse after I decided that blonde wasn’t really my thing and went to black/red. Especially since the variation in colour between my new and natural colour meant that I had to dye it almost once a month. At this point, even the stylists at the cheap salons would start making snarky comments: I had just dyed my hair, yes. From a drug store box, yes. Yes, I was aware that the colour was very different from my natural colour—only blind people couldn’t be. Yes, I was aware that some women would give their left kidney for my natural colour. I wouldn’t—I’m far better looking with dark hair and I’m hardly like other women. In fact, despite my pale complexion, dying my hair this dark did the exact opposite of what the nosy stylist had predicted before I had gone ahead with it, it had given me colour.

I haven’t had my hair cut in probably two months at least. I don’t want to go back because the stylist is going to point out that I haven’t had my hair cut in over two months. Then, she’s going to ask me what kind of “product” I have in my hair and when I tell her, she’s going to say that that stuff is no good and I should try this $50/itty-bittytube crap that doesn’t make any difference whatsoever. (I once spent a lot of money on salon shampoo and it made my hair MORE limp. I find it ironic that stylists, who I don’t imagine make killer money, would suggest that I pay what happens to be a fortune for me on my hair.) Then, I’m going to ask her about a hairstyle I like and she’s going to tell me that I can’t do that with my hair for some stupid and ridiculous reason. Then, when I’m leaving I will realise that I just paid too much to get my hair trimmed by a pious bitch and that I don’t like her hair.

I should start going to the barber. He’s a reasonable guy; he would know that I don’t want any funny stuff when I say I need a trim. It’s just a straight line.

And, as a sidenote, someone asked me recently whether I had given up on the portraits. No, I just found that I didn't want to write them all at once.