We Are Not Amused

For some reason I have never been able to get salons to cut my hair the way I want. I haven’t had a single encounter where the stylist did what I asked for without an argument. It seems to be their lot in life to make my stay as uncomfortable as possible. My last visit was no exception.

My sister and I both wanted to cut our hair so I called a salon nearby and made appointments.

The day came and we headed out. The salon was only a few blocks away so, despite the cold weather, my sister said we should walk. If it were up to me, we would never walk anywhere. I think feet are meant to work pedals - which my sister finds ironic since I dislike driving more than I dislike walking.

We arrived at the salon and were greeting by two immaculately coiffured ladies. One offered us a drink and the other directed us to the changing room. We donned our robes and sat down. Within minutes a slim, tall, very energetic and very gay young man bound up to my sister.

“Hi there,” he chirped, bouncing on his heels in excitement. “I’m Beri! Let’s get started!” My sister hopped up, fueled by his energy and they walked off side by side like the best of friends. I waited, excited for my own rent-a-friend to come by and make me pretty.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Ten minutes later a woman with a tightly wound bun and a bored expression walked up to me.

“Michael is ready to see you now,” she said. “Follow me.”

Well, now I am annoyed. As I sat down on my chair I tried to remain positive. This time would be different. I just needed a very simple blunt cut. Easy peasy, right?

Another five minutes passed. My sister was giggling up a storm with Beri.

Finally a tall man with a distinctive nose and an aura of self-importance strode over to me. He looked down at my hair, spread it through his fingers and said in a posh London accent, “now, what are we doing with this?”

Well, for starters we would like to punch you in the nose but we won’t cus we’re trying to have a good day.

“Are you Michael?” I asked, trying to start this relationship (however brief it was) on a good note.

“Of course I am,” he said in a tone that told me he was offended. Why he should be offended I have no idea. In my world, people usually introduce themselves before they start touching you. In a moment of snarkiness I thought about saying, “don’t you mean of course we are?”

I decided against it. Maybe it was a good thing he had used the singular? Perhaps only half of him was offended. I decided to talk to the happy half.

“I want to cut the blonde off.”

You see, about a year back I had dyed the bottom half of my hair blonde and it had recently turned the color of rotten squash. I wanted it gone.

There was no word from Michael. I began to get nervous. When he spoke his voice was laced with concern.

“All the blonde? Really?” he sounded as if I had asked him to shave my head and dye my scalp purple. “That’s a lot of hair.”

“That’s fine, that’s what I want.”

“That’s a lot of hair,” he repeated.

I wish I had had the guts to say, “are we deaf?” Instead I forced a smile.

“That’s fine. Just cut it off.”

“That’s a lot of hair,” he said again, his tone slightly more urgent. I started to speak when he interrupted me. “If I cut that much hair you’ll have a bob.”

A bob? I looked in the mirror. I could see where the blond began. It would clearly have not been a bob even if he cut an inch above the line. But he had said it and now I was worried.

“I don’t want a bob,” I said quickly.

“Yeah…” Came the response in a tone that would have made it interchangeably with “no shit.”

“Can you cut the blonde off without giving me a bob?”

This was too much. Michael put his hands up.

“Listen, why don’t you think about what you really want?”

He left and began chatting with the woman behind the entrance counter.

I looked in the mirror annoyed and confused. What was this dope going on about? More importantly, how could I convince him I wanted this blonde off post haste without him pitching a fit and chopping my hair off in spite? He seemed just the sort who would too. And what was his beef with bobs anyway? Had a guy named Bob cheated on him? Did a customer with a bob sue him? Was he booed off “The Price is Right?”

A happy voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked around and located my sister. She and Beri were singing selections from Rent. They looked thick as thieves and twice as chummy.

Ugh. Once again I had ended up with Satan’s answer to a stylist. I had to stick to my guns this time. I wanted the rotten squash blonde gone. I vowed to tell Michael exactly that when he came back. I steeled myself and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Michael was only eight feet away. I kept making eye contact but he was ignoring me. Perhaps he had decided that I didn’t look like I had thought about it enough. Obviously I needed to think more. The lady behind the counter began to get nervous. She kept smiling at me and tapping Michael. He seemed oblivious. Finally she decided to walk my way. He followed her still chatting up a storm.

“So I said, girl… girl, you have got to dump him already! But she wouldn’t! It was a disaster, just like my last home do-over. Those colors. Ugh. Now my place looks awful. I tried calling…”

The woman stopped responding in an effort to get him to pay attention to me. Michael was undaunted. He spent another minute gabbing about his interior design disaster when the manager walked up and said she needed help. She took the other woman by the arm and led her away.

Michael, having no one else to talk to, finally turned his attention to me.

“So, what have we decided?”

Oh, goody, we were back. I suppose Michael two was no longer annoyed with me. It wouldn’t last of course.

“I really want to get this blonde off.”

Michael sighed loudly. He made fake scissors with his fingers and indicated a random point nearly two inches above the blonde line.

“I’ll have to cut this much off to get that blonde. If you want the blonde gone, why don’t you just dye it?”

Because dying it was going to cost me easily twice what a hair cut would.

“I am allergic to hair dye.”

Michael perked up immediately. At rapid fire pace he began to drop “facts” about the new dye the salon was using. It didn’t irritate skin. It was “all natural” he kept saying. I was getting mighty sick of that phrase. I told him I had psoriasis and I couldn’t put dye on my hair. He was unmoved; he said it was safe, all natural. Before I could interject, he ordered the girl behind the counter to “whip us up some dye.” She ran off. The manager, sensing some tension, came over and told me the dye was for a skin test and not for my hair.

“Look, I don’t know if I want to dye anything right now. Can you just cut the blonde,” I asked again.

Michael changed tactics.

“But your face is so round.”

A-ha! Now I had him! Stylists had been telling me that my face was rounder than the full moon since I was ten. I was prepared.

“Oh yes,” I agreed quickly, “But if you leave the strands in the front long they’ll cut across my cheeks.”

“Oh.”

Oh, I got you! I got you good! There was nothing left. There was no logical argument he could make now. I had won.

“So…” Michael began again fumbling around for another foothold for this argument. “Do you want your hair cut or do you want the blonde gone?”

“Cut it here,” I replied indicating where the blonde actually was.

Michael stiffened. His accent went from Claridge’s receptionist to East End pub owner in three seconds.

“Look, why don’t we dye it instead? Your face is so round.”

“I would like it cut.”

“But it’s not the right season to cut it. It’s just too… cold out.”

Too cold? The man was from London and he was bald. This was Atlanta. It was 68 degrees in the middle of January. But, in my silence, he kept on, insisting that somehow the frigid Atlanta weather, combined with the particular circumference of my face was a lethal combination that would drop me dead the moment I stepped outside.

The assistant my stylist had sent for the dye returned. She, along with Michael, began to apply it to various places on my body to check if I would have a reaction. The manager looked apologetic.

As they worked away, applying dye, and bandaging my skin, I looked over at my sister. She was already having her hair dried. When Michael started going into detail about the dying process, I cracked. I just wanted out.

I waited for a break in the conversation.

“Look,” I said when they had finished. “Cut as much as you like and I’ll dye the rest.” I neglected to mention I would not be dying it in this salon.

This appeased Michael and he started to cut. It took about 30 seconds and afterwards he kept going on about the length.

“Oh this is a fabulous length! We love this length!”

Of course we love it. We had picked it.

It was agony listening to him go on while waiting for the dye to dry. I was thrilled when it started to burn and they had to wipe it off before the ten minutes were up.

Michael took it personality. As if I had altered the molecular structure of my skin to react to his hair dye. He then told me I had a wheat allergy. I told him I didn’t. He insisted I did.

“But, it doesn’t matter because I have this other dye that…”

But the manager stopped him this time. She said I needed to wait 24 hours to see if I had a proper reaction before they could try another dye. Michael sighed heavily and thrust his card in my face. Below his name it said, “Master Stylist.”

“My number is on it,” he said. “We’re closed tomorrow but if you call me I can tell you where I live. Come over and I’ll check it for you.”

There was no way on this green Earth I was ever, ever going to call this man let alone go to his house. If I had been up for a verbal battle I would have asked him if he really wanted guests over when his place was looking so awful.

“Sure,” I responded. I didn’t feel guilty. He was British; he knew that I really meant “not on your life.”

We paid and left.

About a week later I got a comment card from the salon asking how my experience was. I was going to be polite and not fill it out but it kept staring at me. Finally I decided I had to say something. So, in an effort to organize my thoughts I sat down on my computer and wrote a detailed summary about my experience. After it was done I felt much better. I looked down at the comment card. Now I had to fit four pages of ranting onto a 3x5 inch card. I decided to forgo the essay. I simple wrote,

“We are not amused.”