It’s that time again–the dreaded trip to the hair salon. My last three visits were instructive in that I now know I am completely out of touch with modern culture.
When did the need for a simple cut and color turn into a three-hour-long consultation exploring the inner life of my hair? I have a LOT of hair and without the assistance of Clairol, et al, it is almost entirely gray. In other words, I have an enormous and unruly brillo pad sitting on top of my head. I was rendered speechless the first time I was asked about my ‘goals’ for my hair. I should think that is pretty obvious. I would like it to learn conversational Norwegian and try its hand at Mediterranean cooking. Duh.
I guess I was shockingly naive and totally unaware that my hair is on a personal journey for optimum health and fulfillment–one that I am impeding by my negligence as a hair parent. Not only am I thoughtless about the needs of my hair, I consistently deny it hundreds and hundreds (and hundreds) of dollars of ‘product’ that will raise not just its IQ, but also its quality of life. By setting overly simplistic goals of having my hair lay down nicely on my head and behave itself, I have cruelly subjected it to the tyranny of low expectations.
So back to the salon I go, no doubt to be humiliated by a young woman with glossy locks curled ever so perfectly (just at the ends) with a serious and concerned expression on her face over my profound hair failure. Hope there is no hair protection agency or I will surely be reported.