Dear thirty-something who thinks a certificate from Aveda qualifies her as a mind reader as well,
I am as girly as they come, but I get actual anxiety when it comes time for my bi-monthly hair salon visit. I bring in the exact same picture of Lauren Conrad, circa 2007, and leave looking like Dolly Parton, circa all the time. Am I shooting for the moon here? I think not. I depend on you to make me beautiful. I love you, but sometimes, I don’t like you.
I don’t care how many articles I read about trimming your ends, it ain’t happenin’. Don’t come near my split, damaged ends with those scissors. It takes my hair six months to grow a centimeter, and you’re about to ruin it in the name of healthy hair. If I can tell you’ve cut any length off my hair, you’ve cut too much. What is your obsession anyway? I can’t tell you the number of horror stories I’ve heard about hair dressers cutting off too much. One of my roommates had a really cute, medium-length thing happening. She came home with a BOB. Literally. She looked like Daisy Buchanan. In a bad way.
Don’t tell me I should be coming in every few weeks for a trim. Does it look like I want to hang my head in shame that many times a year? That would be a big no. And let’s talk about that awkward shoulder/neck massage? Really? Of course it feels fucking great. But I have to act like it doesn’t, because I’m uncomfortable with all of this. I am going to refuse the complimentary hand and arm massage, because I don’t want to hold your hand for ten minutes while you forget what treatment you just slathered on my head.
Am I supposed to stare at you while you wash my hair? Close my eyes and pretend to relax, when really my mind is spinning because I know your under-paid “apprentice” left that toner in for far too long. I know my hair is damaged. Don’t ask me if I use heat on my hair, it’s 2014. My hair is basically constantly under some kind of ceramic heater. I also hate the fact that I have to tip you. I’m using my best fake recruitment smile to pretend like “I loveeee it!” but really I want to say, “Are you kidding? My hair looks like the Yellow Brick Road.”
Also, don’t ask me about my personal life and then try and dish out some shitty generic advice. I obviously told you the storybook version of what’s going on in my life. Not that I ate Wendy’s alone in my car at midnight last night. If I were talented enough and not concerned that it would all fall out, I would box dye my hair. It costs less and produces the same shitty results that I am paying $700 for anyways. Is it that hard to match my roots to the rest of my over-processed locks? I could hire a lawyer to sue you for this botched color at a lower fee.
While we’re on the topic of color, don’t suggest a different shade. Don’t suggest a different cut for my face shape. I haven’t been able to figure out what my face shape is in 20 years, don’t try now. My roommates and I spent hours on Pinterest trying to pick a completely unobtainable style, please just respect me and make it happen. Don’t take me on a lap around the products section. I can’t afford a deep conditioning treatment or fifty dollar color protector. Sorry Paul Mitchell, you can’t have my money.
All in all, I appreciate the effort and lengths you go try and make me happy. But sometimes, I just need to vent. And sometimes, I just need you to transform my hair fantasy into a reality without hijacking it.
I’m glad we had this talk. See you Thursday. Please don’t “accidentally” give me a mullet as a result of this.
Image via Social Fly NY