I hate getting my hair cut. I had an appointment with my stylist today and, at some point during the multi-hour process, it dawned on me:
I would rather go to the dentist for two hours than be here.
In fact, if I could – and logistics made it a feasible alternative – I think I would rather get my wisdom teeth removed every six weeks than get my hair done.
I hate getting my hair cut.
The problem always begins as I’m sitting there, when all I have to do – for two hours – other than make small talk with my stylist or thumb through mindless magazines, is stare at myself in the mirror. Invariably, at some point while doing this, I begin to feel incredibly un-pretty.
Now, that’s not to say I feel that way in general. I feel pretty when I get ready for work on Monday or when I go out on Friday nights. I can even feel pretty in a ponytail running errands on Saturday morning.
But there’s something about the experience of the salon – wrapped up to your neck in what feels like a plastic garbage bag, shuffling around from the stylist’s chair to the sink, and then staring at yourself, with your wet hair pulled back, and scrutinizing the bags under your eyes – that makes you feel utterly un-pretty.
Now typically, being made to feel “un-pretty” isn’t a big deal. Nobody expects to feel “pretty” while standing in line at the DMV, picking up after their dog, or visiting the gyno.
When it comes to the hair salon, though, “feeling pretty” is exactly what you’re ultimately paying several hundred dollars for.
So why should we endure the plastic cape and the bad lighting and the shuffling around while we’re there?
To be fair, the salon experience may be a little bit more frustrating for me than most people, because my finished product almost never seems worth the investment of time, patience and money. My hair, no matter the investment I make, looks alarmingly similar to Justin Long’s character in The Break Up.
But either way, I never like being there. When it’s all said and done, I always fiend a smile, because it’s not their fault my hair sucks and at that point, I just want to get the cape off and get out of there.
I pay them a ton of money for this process – much more, I always feel, than I should, given my hair. And as I’m bottling impatience to escape this place as soon as possible, I smile and promise to come back in six weeks.
“Don’t wait so long this time!”
We both know I will.
Because why would I willingly put myself through this again any time soon?
And as bolting out the door, the thought always crosses my mind: it shouldn’t feel this way.