I arrive at the hair salon for my full hi-lights appointment at 9:00 a.m.. I'm pleased that, for once, I'm on time. It's my first time visiting this salon; two days prior I had an appointment at the salon across the street, but it was a shit hole with a weirdo hairdresser where I had to commit the "sit and dash" (I sat in her chair, she freaked me out, and I left before she got one hand on my luscious locks), so I was a little nervous. The receptionist is young with a trendy hair-cut and she greets me warmly. She tells me that my stylist is running late and offers me some water and gives me a magazine to read while I wait.
It's a small salon that's in the newly built downtown area of my town, a growing suburb of Atlanta. I'm a sucker for trendy salon names, particularly ones with numbers, and this one is aptly named to my liking. It's minimally decorated: everything is black and white with a few pops of lime green. The last place was decorated like Carmella Soprano owned the joint, so I'm feeling encouraged about my visit. It doesn't bother me that my stylist is running late. I'm always late and normally wouldn't make an appointment so early on a Saturday morning as I'm usually chilling in Hangover City at this time.
Ten minutes later my stylist breezes in, she's about 5'7", blonde hair piled messily in a high ponytail with a scrunchie (yes, a scrunchie), thin, wiry, with lines of hard-living creasing her face. She's probably 32 but the hard-living makes her look 45.
She walks over to greet me, "Did you get my message?!?"
She rolls her eyes in frustration, "I left you a message telling you not to come until 9:15."
"Uhhhhhh, I left my phone at home, sorry."
She leads me to the chair and puts her hands in my hair. I guess Tabatha Coffey would call this my "consultation". Immediately I can tell something is wrong. I look in the mirror and as her hands are going through my hair she's super frowny faced and deeply concentrating. It's been awhile since my hair has been hi-lighted, and by the way she is assessing my hair I think the worst:
Shit! Fucking lice!
She remains silent as she looks through my hair. She's deliberately scrutinizing my head of hair.
Jesus, now I'm going to have to wash everything. I wonder if Febreeze removes lice....
Probably. I'll just Febreeze everything.
She's still silent.
I guess I'll be performing a lice check on the husband tonight. *Sigh* Well, I'll have to pick up some rubber gloves and a pencil. Do we have a lice checking stool for him to sit on?
The stylist is now extremely frowny faced as she contemplates my hair situation.
Probably not - we don't have shit. Something else I'll have to get. If I get it at Goodwill will it have lice on it? Hmmm....I guess the Febreeze will take care of that too....
Finally, Confucious the stylist say, "You have a lot of hair."
I don't respond. I just look at her.
What the fuck? My hair is thick, but it's not like a bush and it's not down to my god damned feet.
At most, it's an inch past my shoulders.
She continues, "You didn't say you had this much hair when you made your appointment."
Normally I don't act like this much of a little bitch with people, but she is scary. Hard-living, redneck, don't give a fuuuuuck, whoop your ass scary. And I do give a fuck. Also, I had already done the sit and dash across the street a couple of days ago.
What can I do? Sit and dash all over town?
She continues to tell me that she doesn't know if she's going to have time for my full hi-lights.
Because you were late??
She informs me that apparently she's a god-damn Michalengelo in the hair world 'cause she's extreeeeemely particular about her hi-lights and I should have mentioned over the phone that I had a lot of hair.
Finally, after much intense frowny-faced deliberation, she decides that she will graciously hi-light my bushman, freak-ass, Elvira, hair even if it makes her run over schedule.
Thank God. This lady is like Mother Theresa.
While she applies my hi-lights she treats me to a constant bitch-fest about my hair. She also tells me about a dream she had where she felt like she was drowning and fills me in on her child support woes with her ex.
You know, small talk.
She finishes applying the hi-lights and lets me sit and "process". She informs me that while I sit she's going to grab some breakfast and will be back in 30 minutes.
She returns, thank God, and washes the hi-lights out. On the way back to the chair she complains that her arm will be sore all week from blow-drying all my hair. I laugh awkwardly, I mean what the hell else can I do?
"Don't laugh, it's not funny!"
Finally she finishes blow-drying my hair (complaining the entire time) and brings me up front to check out.
She engages in a converstaion with the receptionist about which price level to bill me, the stylist looks at me and witheringly says, "With all that hair she has - Level 3".
I pay the receptionist Level 3 price, and as I'm walking out the door the stylist stops me.
"You haven't booked your next appointment!"
"You better come back in six weeks and do partial hi-lights. You can't let yourself go again after all that work I put into you."
"And don't you dare cancel it!"
Yeah bitch what the fuck ever...
So, I schedule another appointment, fully intending to cancel it and leave.
TO BE CONTINUED.......
Bitch goes all Single White Female on me...in Part Two.