Hairdresser's salons: we go in to repair the tired locks, give them a bit of va va voom, to tame the unruly mop and, we hope, to emerge feeling a few dollars better than an hour or so previously. Why then do they provide such an agony of torment in the process?!
Was there ever a place you'd really rather not be spotted in? The grey hairs are combed into position for closer examination, a nylon apron-style cape tied at the neck, topped with a towel and then, to give you that cosy, protected feel, a length of plastic wrapped and tied over the top of it all; can't have any nasty colouring damaging the collar or neckline of your garment. Well, no; but you will feel as though you're either about to be put in an oven or, at the very least, plastered in six inches of Dead Sea mud for its healing powers.
A pot of gloop is wheeled over on a trolley, like an offering on a mobile altar. The colourist picks up a paintbrush and begins to apply the smelling substance to hair roots: it's like having cold wallpaper paste applied in large brushstrokes. When the deed is done, a timer is set and, in my case, foil wrapped around glasses to protect them from the gloop. If ever one felt like a turkey...
Coffee goes cold, the hospitality packet of two indeterminate looking biscuits remain unopened and a pile of stained and worn magazines sit on the counter in front of you. These are infinitely preferable to sitting and looking at oneself in the large mirror that faces the chair - and if you're really lucky you'll be able to see further reflections from other mirrors further along the counter, behind you, above you, across the way; in this way you can see exactly how your hair sticks out at more angles than a porcupine, and with a slimey patina to boot. The magazines have been read a hundred times before, news of a celebrity engagement so out of date that they've married, had kids and are fighting it out in the divorce courts. Any article that looks vaguely enticing has already been ripped from the staples and free samples of the latest anti-ageing cream long sinced departed.
The bit that gets me is when the cooker timer goes off, alerting everyone in the salon except for the person in charge of your hair. Personally, I sit there and worry, either that I'll emerge with hair fifty shades darker than was intended, or that it'll simply fall out in protest. More gloop is applied, this time to all lengths of the hair, which seems to involve quite a bit of pulling in the 'just working it in' process, before the timer is set again. By the time it's over, the scalp is guaranteed to be freezing and your fingers doubtless carry a stain of colour where you've inadvertently pushed at the cold carapace or tried to make the foil on the glasses less uncomfortable.
Then, the joys of the basin. Even with a neck protector, the experience of leaning so far back against cold china slowly cuts off any circulation to the upper back. "Is the temperature all right for you?" is a tricky one to answer when powers of speech are far from easy (try it with your neck backwards at a 90 degree angle), and when the temperature concerned fluctuates from icy needles to red hot pokers. Lotions and potions are rubbed in the hair, massaged into the scalp, all washed off again and you're wrapped up like a wannabe Elizabeth Taylor in a turban and dispatched to the hairdressing whiz, who will clip your hair in clumps, snip, cajole, comb, de-tangle, pull, cut some more and, once satisfied, apply more potions, dry with consummate skill and, finally, spin you in the chair with a 'ta-dah!' that says, 'Aren't you glad you came?'
Yes, and I'll be back again soon. Must be mad!
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