Friday was one of those days. Naomi had a bad night, waking multiple times for multiple reasons and I was tired. As she fussy nursed that morning I saw the day stretched out ahead of me and started a whiny internal monologue, a very dissatisfied costumer of life in general. This unproductive thought track led me to feeling bad about my appearance, the old familiar body hang ups finally able to once again occupy the majority of my non mommy thought life.

So impulsively I called a hair salon I’ve been to before and asked if any of the stylists had availability for the next day, Saturday. The receptionist said they did, and that Dani could see me at 1:00. I was really excited, its been 6 months since I had my hair cut or colored and Daniel could watch Naomi! I bought an US Magazine and looked forward to a break and to feeling pretty.

I arrived at the salon on time, Starbucks in hand, and took a seat. Imagine my surprise when Dani the stylist was not a streaky haired former high school softball player but a 60 year old, sloppily dressed man carrying a newspaper.

“Well, “ I told myself, “at least my hair is long. All I want is a trim, no way to mess that up”. I mean, I was at the salon with no baby, I was winning! This couldn’t be so bad.

Danny had me sit down and seemed to understand that I wanted my grays covered and just a trim and to take a little bulk out of it. While he distractedly applied the dye we sort of chatted awkwardly, but really all I wanted was to read my magazine and zone out for an hour, excited to look pretty once again a the end of the ordeal.

After awhile when my head was good and itchy he led me to the sink and wildly shampooed my hair. Now, this is normally once of my favorite parts. Sitting in the chair, eyes closed while the stylist sort of massages my head and applies all kinds of yummy smelling potions and elixirs that will leave my hair shiny and gorgeous. But my long awaited spa moment was not to be. Luke warm water flew everywhere and instead of closing my eyes to relax I had to close them to protect them from the offending spray. Water trickled into my ears as he haphazardly shampooed me and talked uncomfortably about breastfeeding.

By the time we got back to his chair I was pretty nervous about his skill level in cutting. But ready or not, scissors started flying. I have never seen anything like it. I expected him to carefully section my hair in clips and take one small bit at a time through his fingers, keeping an eye on the hair and checking for evenness at regular intervals. But clearly, my stylist Danny did not receive the excellent Vidal Sassoon training my regular stylist did, so there was to be no checking. The best way I can describe Danny’s technique is to picture the way a 16 year old boy in drama class would pantomime a woman’s haircut. My wet hair was flung this way and that as he wielded his weapon with speed and fury. To my untrained eye there seemed to be no technique or even plan for the cut. Chunks of wet hair hit the ground. Nothing I could do now. I just sat there staring and decided to laugh about it instead of being present. Thats always a good solution.

Danny finished with the scissors and picked up the blowdryer and a can of hairspray. Two minutes later he was done and I leapt from the chair, anxious to get home and wash my hair to see if it was really as bad as I thought. ( It wasn’t . Its just not that great).

At the receptionist desk I paid way too much for such a disappointing experience and mentally added a new life lesson to the bunch: If a hairstylist has next day availability for a Saturday at 1:00, skip it and get a pedicure instead.

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