Why Can I Not Find Peace With The Hair?

I don't really like going to get my hair cut. I've been thinking about why that is and I've come to the conclusion that I'm irritated by the fact that I have to pay $40 for my hair to look like it's supposed to for ONE day every 8-10 weeks. I want more return for my money. I mean if it's going to look like a squirrel's nest all the time anyway, what's the point? Every time I go, I get my hopes up that THIS cut will be the one that works. The one I can manage and duplicate every day. And every time, by week 2 I've already landed in the pit of hair dispair.

Such is the curse of wavy-not-curly-not-straight hair.

Once my hair reaches a certain length, it becomes too heavy to wave. That's how I know it's time to make another appointment. A few chops here and there bought me a couple of extra weeks this time, but even Michael's 1/2 inch cut around the bottom wasn't enough to stave off the salon. And when I had no choice, I had no choice.

But logic seemed to say that if it's going to look bad anyway (and this is no reflection on the stylists by the way - it's not their fault) why pay so much? And so I found myself on a chair in the front reception area of a national cheap-cut chain. I had brought Brenna along for a trim as well. The first thing I noticed was how quiet it was. All the chairs were full and three stylists were working, but no one said a word. Only the country radio station playing broke the silence.

Since I had checked us in online, we had barely a minute's wait and the next available stylist called me back. She draped me and began squirting water on my hair before she even asked what I wanted done. As I talked she sprayed, not caring what she hit so that before long water ran down my cheek. She began cutting, never pinning anything up out of the way. She asked, "long layers or medium?" and other than, "look down" and  "is that better?" when she was done, she really didn't say much of anything. She took the razor to the back of my neck at the end and I had to fight the urge to scrunch my shoulders up tight and protect my skin. Razor burn. I was glad to be finished.

Brenna hopped in the chair for her spray down and got a similar wordless treatment. "An inch off?" was all she said and then she combed hair over the face and down the front hard enough to hurt. Nose, ears, forehead were apparently all in the way. As she worked, the man next to me began to get impatient for his turn. He took the ladies to task for allowing Brenna and I to go ahead of him. Another stylist patiently explained that we had checked in online but he wasn't buying it. He told her he worked in customer service and first come should be first served. She apologized for his wait and assured him he was next, but he was still very agitated.

Shortly after, Brenna finished and I stepped up to pay. $24. Total. For BOTH of us. (Plus razor burn, comb marks, the silent treatment, and grumpy customers.) And the woman finally smiled as she explained that there are coupons on the back of the grocery store receipts for $7.50 cuts.

Brenna made me promise not to take her back to that national chain. I think she'd rather I trim her split ends, than have her face combed off by an angry stylist. I guess I understand. It was quite the experience we had. In fact, I've decided to go ahead and start making my next appointment. Eight weeks from now with a friend who works from her home and cut my hair for ten years before we moved to this house. I think I miss her. Even if my hair is going to look like unwound thread nine of the ten weeks between cuts, at least she makes the actually cutting experience enjoyable.

After our cuts,  we walked next door to Kroger and I let Brenna pick out what to have for dinner. She chose kale, cottage cheese, and little smokies. I'm not kidding.