Why I’m Bad at Getting My Hair Done

I was sifting through some old, defunct blogs of mine, and I came across one of my favorites that I wrote a couple years ago:

Sometimes I amaze myself with the absolutely insane thoughts I have. I don’t mean the “Oh, maybe I won’t wear a bra today” – crazy. I mean full on “What the HELL is WRONG with you?!?!” – crazy.

Yesterday I got my hair cut. I’ve been going to a salon in Fishers (Indiana) for a year now, and it’s fabulous. I’d tell you the name of the salon, but then you’d probably find it on Facebook, then sift through all the people who “like” it and find all of them with names that start with B. Then, you’d narrow it down to red hair, and then BAM! You’re at my window, clutching a pair of my underwear. See? I’m crazy. Anyway, my salon is nothing but amazing, but yesterday, for some reason, I was 100% convinced that someone was going to steal my purse.

I was already a little jilted before I even sat in a chair. Apparently there had been a mix up when I made my appointment, because the receptionist was all like, “Are you sure you have the right day? You’re not Lindsay!!” And I’m like, “Who the hell is Lindsay?” And then the other receptionist, who is apparently a rocket scientist, was like, “I think there was…..a MIX UP!” And we all laughed and happily agreed that was it. And we high five-d and fist pumped and made another appointment to braid each other’s hair (hopefully that one won’t get mixed up).

So when it’s finally decided that I am indeed who I say I am and who I am supposed to be, the apprentice chick takes me to a chair. Yes, you heard me right. My stylist, Holly, was finishing up her other client, so I was to be shampooed by…the APPRENTICE. Now you might be thinking, “B, you are being irrational. I am sure this apprentice is fully capable of WASHING your hair. I mean, YOU manage to wash you own hair. Surely an apprentice can. Plus, she seems really nice.” You might think that, computer, and you would be absolutely correct. However, me being the neurotic that I am, immediately said, “You are not Holly! Get your hands off my hair!!” Okay, I didn’t say that, but I’m sure my eyes awkwardly darting back and forth, staring longingly at Holly told this poor girl that something was wrong with me.

So I somehow made it through the scalp massage (I know, right? How dare she?) after mumbling (literally) an answer when she asked me what shampoo I normally use. (Also, sidenote: She used a wonderfully scented lavender oil to massage my scalp. How’d she know that was one of my favorite scents? Bitch.) She then dragged me (cheerfully welcomed me) over to the sink where she washed my hair and massaged my scalp some more (this chick doesn’t give up). Now it is a normal practice for me to leave my purse at Holly’s station while I’m being shampooed or sitting under the heat lamp head thingy. I mean, it’s in eye sight. I can SEE it. The problem is I always feel like I should close my eyes while I’m being shampooed. It’s not that I’m afraid to get anything in my eyes. I just feel really weird awkwardly staring at someone while she’s awkwardly washing my hair (which is awkward in itself because any other time my hair is washed is when I’m in the shower….naked). So I closed my eyes and tried to forget that I was surrendering my precious locks to an apprentice.

However, as soon as I closed my eyes, I was suddenly aware of the fact that my purse was just sitting across the room by itself. Never mind the fact that that’s the way it always is. (sidenote: This might be the time to mention that I have a very active imagination, and I can convince myself of almost anything.) As soon as I closed my eyes, I imagined a man, perhaps early thirties, slim stature, jauntily slink in the door. He suavely tips his hat to the stupid receptionists, and they giggle and bashfully turn their heads as he continues to charm everyone in the lobby. Then he’s all business. He is in black, so of course he is now invisible, and he Mission Impossibles himself through the salon, narrowly avoiding stylists and chairs and flying combs and scissors and small children and elderly ladies with walkers. He finally makes his way to his target: my poor purse. He snatches that sucker up and runs out of the door, laughing maniacally.

But I don’t stop there. I then imagine myself innocently opening my eyes after my shampoo and gingerly walking back to the chair. I am devastated to discover that my purse is gone. I burst into tears and throw myself on the ground, my wet hair acting as a magnet to the hair clippings that have gathered on the floor. I writhe around, hit my fists on the ground, and call out, “WHYYY?!!? Why me, WHY??!! MY PURSE!! Don’t just stand there, apprentice! Go get my effing purse!!!” Apprentice looks bewildered for a moment, but then gathers herself, gives a curt nod, and bolts.

I then realize that if I have no purse, then I have no wallet, no keys, no cell phone. No money means I can’t pay for my haircut, so that naturally makes me imagine myself in jail. I’m shoved into a cell full of prostitutes and crack heads, my hair dripping wet and only cut halfway. No keys means I am screwed even more than I would have been had I driven my own car to the salon. You see, I had to borrow my boyfriend’s car. So I imagine myself tearfully tearing through the phone book to find his work number (because I don’t have my cell phone and I don’t have his cell phone number memorized because who memorizes phone numbers these days?) and calling him and blubbering to him something that sounds like, “*sob* purse *sob* gone *sniff* bad man *sob sob* apprentice *sniff* she’s not Holly *SOB SOB SOB* your car *sniff* GONE *sniff* I’m so sorry!! *SOOOOOOOBBBBB*” And he has no idea what is going on and assumes I’ve been kidnapped by a bad man with an apprentice in his car.


Apprentice has returned! She flings her Rambo gear off and triumphantly produces my purse! I throw my arms around her, covering her in the hair clippings that are still clinging to my wet hair. Everyone cheers, and she wipes the dead hair from her eyes. I apologize for being a brat to her, tell her she has magic effing hands, and give her $20. Okay, $5. Holly is amazed and suggests that Apprentice cuts my hair. I say, “Are you f-ing crazy? Cut my hair immediately!” And Holly bows and does so. And I leave looking sexy.

Then I opened my eyes.

I am relieved to see that my purse is still there and Holly is ready for me.

Thank GOD.


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