The Hairdresser

Something about a male colleague sitting opposite me at work looked a little bit different to me one morning. When I say ‘a little’ I mean a smidgen, a morsel, a diminutive amount, a minuscule difference even, - it was hardly visible. I am the most unobservant person ever so I had no idea what it was that was not the same about him on that day but eventually he turned to me in his swivel chair and said in his very pommy accent, “Ad an ‘aircut last night.”


“Oh. Thought so,” I said. So that was it. Yay, move on. I turned back to my budget report.


“Yeah, I finally thought I’d do something different. Get outa my comfort zone.”


“Really?” What the fuck was he on? What different? It was a little bit sticky outy at the back. That was all.


“Cost me a little bit more than a hundred too.”


“A hundred? You mean bucks? or Lifesavers?”


“Yes. Well $139 actually.”


“Fuck me. For a boys hair cut? Was that Australian dollars?”


“They conned me into buying ‘air product.”


“Product? How much product? Fucking hell Martin. That’s girls haircut prices, at Joh Baileys. Was it Joh? Was he even there? Did he have that lippy stuff on?”


“Doesn’t it look any good?”


“Well yes it looks good but I hardly noticed, I mean you’ve got short, straight hair Martin.”


“You said ‘thought so’, like you ‘ad noticed earlier.”


“Well it was a little bit sticky outy at the back. That’s what I’d noticed.”


“Yeah I got ripped off. I know. Who am I kiddin’”


“Aaah yeah. Oh well.”


“Interesting ‘airdresser though.”


“Conversationally?”


“No, the place. It was like a fancy, specialised airdressers.”


“Gourmet?”


“Yeah.”


“No wonder it was pricey.”


“I was offered a boutique beer and a meal.”


“A meal?”


“Well I say meal but it was a minimalistic plate of lemony tuna and rainbow orzo salad….but on a cracker.”


“Jeez. Orzo?”


“Risotto. A teaspoon of it.”


“Hmmm posh. Décor?”


“All white would you believe? Everything.”


“I do. White, you say. Even the floor?”


“Basins, everything.”


“Messy for a floor though. All those dark hair colours. Even the ginga’s hair.”


“Maybe they should just cut Albino hair.”


“I think so, that would be fitting, while playing the white album. Now what was this product Martin?”


“Well there were two recommended.”


“Of course. And you purchased both and what were they?”


“Men Pure-Formance Pomade at the low, low discount price of $47..”


“Oh my God. Pomade? What is that? Did they make that up?”


“Well it helps mold & style and gives a rich, spicy & refreshing aroma with citrus & organic essential oils of spearmint and...” he reeled out a little derisively.


“Whatever. So handy. You can eat it if you ever have an empty fridge at home.”


“The other one was Tigi something catwalk spritz and shine.”


“For models?”


“I got ripped.”


“Oh baby, did you.”


What is happening to the local hairdressers? They are a new world which possibly gives them licence to charge people exorbitant prices, even men who have in the past seemed to duck out of paying little more than $10 or $15 bucks for a haircut and bryl. My hairdresser offers boutique beverages too. There is even a list to choose from. Forget tea and coffee or a glass of cool tap water. These trendy Uber cool salons are high art. What I hate about the chain hairdresser though is the mandatory amount of money a particular hairdresser is required to make to stay employed. A hairdresser needs to be a sales person now as well as cutting good hair, washing hair without digging up people’s scalps with their fingernails and the best at mundane pointless chat. Even though we don’t really listen to much of that because we are enjoying the free head massage. Its just noise to fill up the void.


My dad gave me a voucher for Christmas for a chain hair salon and I went along with delight. There is nothing better than the feeling of a good haircut. Even though some people regard the hairdresser with fear akin to the trepidation of one visiting a dentist. Me I love it. They can’t really fuck up curly hair too dreadfully. When I sat down to wait in front of the mirror with my junk mag and stunning cape on I just expected to sit back, tell her what I wanted and let the process begin. Instead, I was given a clipboard with paper work to fill out. What the? I am only happy to do that at the doctors for the first time because of health issues and what not. The hairdresser does not need to know whether I consider my hair to be dry or oily, washed often enough or what my true dreams are of future hair wear. Wash it, cut the bits off, dry it and let me pay and leave. It took me 20 minutes to fill the official procedure out. It took me less time to do my will. I didn’t want to mention that I have a usual hairdresser and won’t be back, therefore didn’t need to complete the hairdresser red tape because I wanted a decent cut and for them to think I might make this a regular gig. I know that is dishonest, but so is selling an older lady of approximately 75 years of age a $45 bottle of product for her purple hair. It is fucking obviously glossy enough!


Based on the report I’d completed she deciphered from my chicken scratchings (oh well done) that I needed an oil treatment and two particular products that would leave my hair looking like I just walked out of a salon every day. I wonder if anyone would want that look anyway. It’s like over done wedding hair on occasion. Bulbous Bouffant. I have done the run to my car from the salon in the past before anyone I knew saw me, embarrassed at the ‘hair dressed’ look. I usually re do the whole thing as soon as I’m in the car with the aid of the rear view mirror.


I told the hairdresser that I was okay for product, that I had in fact tried every product for curly hair ever created and had found one I was happy with at a reasonable price. But the sell didn’t stop. She also showed me the product packaging, the stats, a hair test, a sniff.


“You could eat it couldn’t you? It smells that good.”

“Oh yes”, I said, “Serve it to me on a plate.”

Eventually I said I was sorry, I couldn’t afford to buy anything at this visit and she sullenly ignored me for the rest of the appointment and snipped and chipped at my hair willy nilly. It looked fucking awful but I was delighted to pull from my wallet my voucher and get the hell out knowing I would not be back ever because I don’t want to be hassled at an already expensive venue. People want to relax at the hairdresser. It’s supposed to be like a pamper session. No longer it seems.

Hair Newz