I am terrified of visiting the hairdressing salon, I always feel so exposed. I am certain the bright lights illuminate every skin blemish. And the carnival of mirrors reflects your every unflattering angle viewed by the on-trend, over-styled apprentices all smiling disingenuously via whatever reflected surface they manage to catch you in this vulnerable state.
So, why do we do it?
On a personal level, my hair dresser (sorry, stylist) is a creative genius. A genuine bona-fide hair whisperer. He’s not only a great guy, he also shares my dislike of small talk.
Our conversation is always business like, “So,” he says running his fingers through my hair, “what we doing today?”
My little voice says, ‘cut it all off! I want change!’ (I hypothesise this thinking is intrinsic to our Neanderthal-like state of optimism.)
A change for the better? Not really.
And so I give in, “whatever you think is best,” I always say. And though I wish I were braver, I am certainly relieved that my inner child doesn’t express an audible request. At, least, not a request for changing me…
So I asked, “If I send my husband in, will you style his hair?” Subtext: not just barber cut, really style.
A friend had told me that she had sent her hubby to her salon for a style change and he came back with Hemsworth-like hair styling. They made love every night until he washed out the style and product some 5 days later. That’s my kinda change – no ‘man’ shame. And, a better looking man.
So, ladies, I say to you, kick the barber and head for the stylist. And fellas,when mine returned, I didn’t want him to wash his hair for five days either.
