Is there anyone out there who actually enjoys getting their hair cut?
If you just responded ‘yes’, I’ve gotta know – are you HIGH?

To me, getting a haircut is akin to going to the dentist. It’s a necessary evil. I know I’ll appreciate it in the long run but the experience itself is painful and pricey.

To start, I just find it cripplingly awkward to make small talk with someone who is grooming me.

I guess the stylists at the mid-tier salon I go to look at their jobs as an opportunity to express themselves creatively, but when I ask you to trim a quarter inch of split ends off my mane of curls, I just don’t think that qualifies as “art”. So, STOP trying to make me YOUR PROJECT.

And what’s with all the junk they put in your hair?? Every single time I go to the hair salon, I beg my person, please, pleaseeee for the love of John Frieda, don’t spray that fancy crap into my hair. No gel. No oil. No mist. Nothing.

And they just look at me like I’m speaking Uzbek.

I get the silent, know-it-all, arched-eyebrow response with a sassy, “this is just a detangler,” or “honey, this just adds a little shine” and before I know it, they’ve clumped on six different products that I didn’t want in the first place.

Of course, being a styyylist, the hairdresser is always determined to style your hair before you walk out the door. Apparently, if you don’t let them straighten it to the point of non-existence, you’re not allowed to leave the salon.

So I sit there, patiently, for a good 30-45 minutes past the haircut itself, as they blowdry and curl and comb and fuss and it’s like, hi, I’m now a burn victim. Seriously. The military should look into using blowdryers as weapons of torture because every time I get my hair done, they burn the shit out of me. If you direct a full blast of blowdryer heat on someone for more than .02 seconds, I guarantee they’ll be on the ground writhing in agony. It’s miserable.

So, let’s say you survive hearing about your hairdresser’s custody battle, and the quarter inch trimming that inevitably becomes a three-inch, full-on cut that turns your hair into a certifiable yield-sign of frizz, and the styling session with lava-hot, appliance-heat scalding the nape of your neck… don’t think you’re in the clear – the worst is yet to come.

Maybe this only happens at my salon (and the other six I’ve been to in this city), but before you leave – burnt, battered, and sobbing – you have to sit through The Hard Sell.

These stylists are some of the keenest con artists I’ve ever met. Even when I walk in convinced I won’t spend a penny more than haircut plus tip, I’m helpless in the face of their epic sales wizardry. It’s like, they make me feel like a terrorist (a hair-orist?) if I admit that I use Costco brand shampoo. They insist, no, demand, that I purchase sulfate-free, conditioning, curl-enhancing shampoo or suggest that I’ll likely die in a gutter a dried up, un-loved, old hag, with cats feasting on my poorly-maintained corpse.

Well, that sounds unappealing, so what choice do I have?

I buy the shampoo.

2 thoughts on “That Time I Got a Haircut and Hated Every Second of It”

  1. You cray! A haircut for me is akin to a massage. If they weren’t so $$ I would go all the time.

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