Botox for Hair

I ventured back to the Schwarzkopf Salon this morning for The Taming of my Locks. I was in the midsts of quite an unbalanced grow-out stage that I simply could tolerate no longer.

My usual female hairdresser and one of the young, hip male hairdressers showed up about two minutes before the place was suppose to open. As they did not have a key, the three of us waited for the receptionist to show. She came strutting in a few minutes past 11:00 in a tight dress that very nearly allowed her buttocks to peek out the bottom...Mongolian women are quite comfortable with their sexuality. The door was opened, she flipped on the lights, walked down the hall to the restroom then promptly fell asleep on the sofa upon her return.

I was led to the wash basis, given a cursory wetting and scrubbing then duly sent back to the chair. As I settled in, I felt the familiar grip of discomfort begin to settle upon me as I uneasily contemplated past hair cutting episodes. I quickly dismissed any thoughts of bolting through the door towards the sunlight. This time, I was going to do it right. I was armed with a Short Hair Cuts magazine from Barnes and Noble. I figured between pointing to pictures, pantomime and creative gestures I would get what I wanted and I nearly did. I pointed, she smiled, said a few key phrases in Mongolian then asked for a cell phone to call her English-speaking boss. We discussed for a few minutes, they discussed for a few minutes, smiles were exchanged and the scissors came out. I indicated that I would like for her to go a bit shorter in the back by grabbing a chunk of my wet hair and making cutting motions with me fingers. Very elementary.

I have to admit that she is a great hairdresser; part way through the cut she dried my hair then readjusted by adding texture and more layers. And, my hair was nearly finished being blow dried before the power went out in the building. This naturally led to the styling part of the process. I'm always a bit reticent to allow someone else to style my hair every since the gay male hairdresser in Medford made me look like Farah Fawcett right before a luncheon date with Brenda. I was too tired by this point to convey my reluctance so I just sat in the chair and left it to the Gods. After about five minutes of careful spraying she spun me around to see the outcome. I think she used nearly half a bottle of extra hold hair spray spritz; I looked like I was wearing a helmet. Seriously, it didn't move. When I got home Greg commented on the frigidity of my hair and I quipped it felt like I had had Botox done.

Nevertheless, at the end of the day I am satisfied. The weight of the world is off the back of my neck, my hair dresser got a hefty tip and the receptionist got her nap. What more could I ask for?