On Hair

I told you that I'm deathly afraid of the telephone. Well, I'm also deathly afraid of hair stylists and other such people who cut my hair.

Okay, this is why. I go into a hair salon. I wait for my turn. Maybe I thumb through a magazine.

Eventually, my name is called, I walk behind the counter, and my assigned hair stylist starts asking me questions that I don't understand.

HAIR STYLIST: What kind of haircut do you want?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...the kind where my hair gets cut?

HAIR STYLIST: How many inches do you want off? Do you like to swoop your bangs or wear them straight down? Blunt or feathery? Layers or one length? Should I thin your hair out? Should I shampoo it? Where does it naturally part? How often does it shed?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL:...I just want a haircut.

But there's no such thing as "just a haircut," so a rather exhaustive and exhausting effort to approximate my idea of "just a haircut" follows. In the end, I fake answers to most of the questions and hope for the best.

Once that torture is done, the haircutting part starts. And this part is really awkward.

Because apparently, it's not okay to just sit in silence and muse while my hair is being cut. Nope. I've got to make small talk. With someone I don't know. And there's no chance of escape until my hair is finished.

It's thirty minutes of torture, I tell you.

A few years ago, I learned to escape the majority of the awkwardness by going to the same hair stylist for every single haircut. This worked like a charm. Within a few haircuts, she learned what I like and stopped asking me confusing questions. AND I got to know her well enough that she didn't always force me to talk while she cut my hair. When we did talk, we didn't have to make small talk, but rather could ask informed questions about each other's lives.

It was a beautiful thing. Except last year she had a baby. And she QUIT. And now I'm once again at the mercy of whatever stylist I'm randomly assigned.

Just the thought strikes fear into my heart.

So I try to avoid getting haircuts as often as possible. Unfortunately, I have a lot of hair. That grows really fast. And I have to go get haircuts ALL. THE TIME. If I don't, I look like Toph Bei Fong. Or a yak.

On Wednesday, after much time apart, I finally ventured into a nearby hair salon.

The receptionist was perceptive enough to see that I was not a yak but a human being. She asked me to take a seat. I did. And I waited. And I thumbed through a magazine until I was called behind the counter to meet my assigned stylist.

HAIR STYLIST: Hi! What kind of haircut do you want?

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...the kind where my hair gets cut.