Somewhere in the right side of my head, a white hair is sticking out with the subtly of a middle finger. I have gone to job interviews believing that if I wouldn’t want a job where I was judged by the state of my hair. I regularly wait my turn in line beside the girlfriend of a guy who is getting his hair trimmed at Supercuts for $20.
This has done me zero favors. While out browsing at Forever 21 (in my 30’s), after getting a really bad cut, a man directly approached me asking if I wouldn’t mind being his hair model so he could train. I have no pride. I knew I looked horrible. I said hell yes.
Despite many attempts, I do not like hair salons. I hate how small I feel in them, how universally unflattering the overhead lighting usually is, and I hate making small talk to someone while they are throwing my hair across my face. While I was sitting get my hair modeled and listening to my hairdresser talk about calyxes, for half an hour I watched the woman next to me wear a backless 1960’s dress and three inch heels walk around continuously while cutting and styling the person next to me. My feet ached. My back felt parched and vulnerable. My hair looked fine. I never went back.
It’s so much more relaxing to go to supercuts without planning anything and not care about my hair, letting my cares go like farts in the wind.
WRITE AND AMUSE 