Click Go The Shears

          Back in the day when hairstylists were called hairdressers; when a blob of mousse was the only ‘product’ available to enhance our droopy locks, a visit to a hair salon was a fairly simple outing for either a cut or a perm.  Color was usually reserved for ladies of a certain age and consisted of a blue rinse on a neat white head.  Anything more than that was done at home because no one admitted to having a few grey hairs or actually changing their mud colored hair into a shining, crowning glory.

          Well, those days are long gone sweet cheeks…at least in any of the salons I’ve recently visited.   Now it’s nigh on impossible to spend less than a half day at one while at the same time being told how much certain products would improve the lank mess on your head.

          Recently I felt a quick haircut was in order.  Not that my hair was too bad…just a simple cleanup around the edges was the only thing required.  Or so I thought.  Ha!

          Captive in a chair with my feet dangling off the floor, I was surrounded by three stylists each one with a grim to grimmer look.  Heavy sighs emanated from them as they looked, picked up a strand or two of my hair, let it flop back and shook their collective heads.  Obviously my head was considered not a shade better than Medusas and what on earth could be done about that?

          The three pondered this sad state of affairs while all the time talking around and above me as though I were a dead body stuffed into their lovely leather chair.  It seems the main problem appeared to be that my hair was not clean enough…this despite the fact I’d shampooed it just that morning. 

          ‘You’re not using our specialty shampoo are you?’ 

          ‘Um…no.  I didn’t know there was a special shampoo for my head,’ I nearly whimpered.

          ‘Ah…’  The three nodded sagely and I think rolled their eyes but I can’t be certain because by then I wasn’t brave enough to look any of them in the face.

          ‘I just came in for a quick trim.’  I mumbled timidly.

          ‘Mmmmm…right.’

          And with that, two of my judges disappeared while the one left to confront the hideousness of the stuff on my head, produced a pair of shears and started to create a ‘style.’  For minutes hair flew in all directions as he cut and pulled, pushed and cut some more. 

          But this was not to be the end of it all.  Before I could heave myself out of the chair, the stylist produced a collection of goods that apparently was deemed necessary for me to be able to look after my hair in the proper manner.

          There was gel and mud and something called root lifter which was going to make my hair stand on end whether I wanted it to or not; there was cream to thicken my hair, another to make it shine and, of course, there was the good old standby but so old hat now, the mousse.   I could have any or all of these products for the cost of a small luxury car and would I like them wrapped?

          I declined purchase of the goodies, paid the ransom for the hair cut and am now looking for a new hair salon.  Or maybe I’ll just start hacking at my hair myself.  Surely it couldn’t look any worse?

                 

Mesmerizing isn't it?  Aaarrrrghghgh!!