A salon was always a magical place to me when I was a kid. I loved hairdressers. I’m a fan of their art. How they can turn my rough, dull hair into glossy, shiny hair with their magical instruments. I owe them a lot.
Everyone knows they suck at maths though. For one, they, for the love of God, can not and will not differentiate between just an inch and three, big inches. My regular trips to the hairdresser always start with an argument surrounding the length of the cut. I just want to get a trim but she insists how the ends of my hair have been severely damaged and how I desperately need to get them cut a few inches.
“Whoever did your hair the last time, ruined it.” Pause. More drama. ” RUINED IT.”
“I always get it cut from here.”
LONG. AWKWARD PAUSE.
“Well, I still have to cut it three inches. You NEED this.”
When I come to the Salon, I make mental calculations as to what I want and how much will it hurt my wallet. And every time I end up getting talked into having proper cut, instead of a trim. It looks fabulous specially after the blow drying that costs another 500Rs.
It look fabulous until the shower the next day.
But this post is no rant about a haircut gone wrong. No, sir!
This is about my Nan’s hairdresser. Personal hairdresser.
A skinny lady, with ash blonde hair that reach her back. She’s lovely. Except for the fact that she talks. Too much. Literally. Too much. I can not emphasize more on this.
Whenever I see her, it reminds me of an episode of Two and a Half Men, starring Miley Cyrus in which she pretends to be this chatter-box who just won’t stop. And Berta, my favourtie of the lot, says:
“That’s what you get when hippies have unprotected sex with humming birds.”
Yeah, it’s funnier when she says it.
So despite having this verbal diarrehaea, my Nan insists on having her hair cut from her. And my Mom too. And here’s the best part: She’s not that great either. I just don’t get it.
The moment she entered our place yesterday, she started telling us about how she was nearly saved from an accident that could have caused if the driver hadn’t turned in time and how roughly they would have been hit because the other truck was at full speed but thanks to her driver who was a bit upset because he had been mugged earlier by a couple of teenagers, they survived the crash.
Hmm, pity, really.
She was talking to me and I tried my best to ignore her. I stared at my phone really hard as if I was lost deep in conversation. She nudged me..no she actually poked me with her feet and said “Are you listening?”
She kept talking all through the day. When she was doing my Nan’s hair. When she was doing my Mom’s hair. When she was mixing the funny looking ingredients for dye. When she was eating. When she was not eating. When she was washing my Nan’s hair. When she was washing my Mom’s hair.
Even when the fucking hairdryer was on. I shit you not.
I gave her a glass of water. “Here,” I said. I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON IT.
To add cherry to the top, my mom has booked her for her wedding reception this December.
“That’s lovely. I can just think of all these great things I can do. And how about you Zareen? What will you like to have done on your hair?”
“I don’t know. I’ll dye it.” This was a joke. Everyone knows I don’t have the balls to dye my hair.
“Perfect! It’s booked then! 27th December then?”
Fuck. Fuck. Did I just fucking book her?
There’s no coming back from this. I can already imagine the state of my hair after our session.
Have you been to the Salon lately? Do they hairdressers do that to you too or is it just a conspiracy against me? I’m curious.
P.S I do know a hairdresser here. Her name is Britney. And she’s fabulous. Just wanted to say that. Okay. Bye.