I've gone to different doctors for different ailments, and most every visit can be summed up in similar fashion:
A doctor walks into the room. "How are you?" I say. "Antibiotics," they say, and "Call me if the pills give you a rash." And then, like a deaf ninja, they disappear into the night, the only evidence of their presence a prescription slip rustling in the wind, and a substantial co-pay awaiting me at the front counter.
My hairdressers, when they're not french kissing me, usually aren't much better. (Would it be cocky to nominate that for Best Sentence Ever?) Sure, I've had some good ones, but not many.
The experience I had last week was especially bad. I blame myself, really, because I had let my hair grow out to that sad, awkward, in-between stage where you can do nothing but pile it in a frizzy knot on top of your head and hope people think, "Look at that cool bohemian girl" rather than "Look at that poor homeless girl." Not only that, but I was feeling crushed under the weight of a massive deadline, and cutting off a part of my body seemed like a drastic but necessary measure to free myself (I had to decide between my foot and my hair).
Throwing caution and logic to the wind, I called the salon geographically closest to my house and made an appointment for "15 minutes from now," despite the following warning signs:
- They had an appointment available 15 minutes from now.
- The name of the salon had a confusing and gratuitous accent mark, presumably to make it seem more French.
- The receptionist thought my name was Banana.
I arrived at the salon just in time to hear one of the stylists tell a client about how a witch had stolen her boyfriend. "I figured out that she was actually a witch," she said. "Can you imagine? A real witch, right here in the neighborhood! I always had the suspicion, you know? Cuz she, like, did spells and stuff, and she was ugly."
My normal-seeming stylist greeted me and led me to her station. "So, what would you like today?" she asked.
"Well, I just really hate my hair right now, and I was thinking--"
"Flat iron," she said, petting my hair.
"Flat iron. You need to flat iron your hair. It looks bad when you don't flat iron."
So, here's a fun fact about me: I have used a flat iron exactly three times in my life. All of these instances took place during my freshman year of college (didn't we all do a bit of experimenting?), and they all ended with a combination of acute boredom and seared flesh. I will never use a flat iron again. I just can't. It's boring and takes FOREVER and it makes my hair frizzy and I like my hair wavy anyway.
I attempted to explain this to the hairdresser, thinking it was sort of hilarious.
"Why would you not use a flatiron?" She seemed personally offended.
"But it makes your hair so nice!"
"I just hate doing it. I think it's a waste of time. I would maybe, possibly consider doing it if a Russian terrorist kidnapped my family and demanded a straightening treatment as ransom, but even then I would hesitate."
"Your family is kidnapped by Russians?"
"So you go buy a flat iron. Spend $100 on a nice one. You don't color your hair, so you have lots of money left over."
"Actually I'd rather spend $100 on anything else--"
"I could give you a really cute haircut if you promise to straighten it."
"What kind of haircut will you give me if I promise that I would never buy or use a flat iron?"
"A good haircut, just not stylish."
"Can I have some antibiotics?"