I never met such a talkative hair stylist. You know the ones like her. They are middle aged, and have an age identity problem. They want to be young so their hair color is as natural as cotton candy; and it changes often. If she was vaccinated as a child, they used a phonograph needle, because she only paused in her conversation to take a breath.
I remember once reading a list of wise counsel by six year old children and surprisingly it was very insightful. The one I remember most was by a little girl who said, “Never let anyone brush your hair if they’re angry.” Now that I’m older and wiser, I’ll add additional counsel; “Don’t visit a hair salon if it’s really busy.”
As I awaited the stylist’s first move, she opened her beauty brief case and began to pull out dull and overused hair tools like my daughter used to do when she played pretend hairdresser. I didn’t recognize some of her accouterments; it’s just as well. Her first faux pax was placing the large bib like fabric across my chest and around my neck. Presumably it’s meant to deflect falling follicles. Never mind the neck width was more appropriate for chihuahua, she snapped it into place and proceeded to be oblivious that my face was turning a vibrant shade of purple. Kudos to her however, she is only the second woman in my life (besides my lovely wife) that has made my eyes bug out of my head. I prefer my wife’s way of doing that better.
One of my pet peeves in life is when someone asks me my preference and then proceeds to do exactly what they wanted anyway. She picked up her round hair brush and began to brush my head like she was starting a primitive campfire to earn her Girl Scout honor. She rubbed my head raw. I quickly yelled, “Ow, Ow” to which she said, “What’s wrong, is your head too tender?”
I said, “No, your brush feels like a garden rake.” Defensively she said, “This brush doesn’t hurt, the metal tines have little plastic ends over it.” I said, “Let me see the brush!” To which she handed it over to me for inspection. She quickly realized her error. Of the thousand tips that should have been on the brush, 990 had been worn off. With all the sincerity of a kindergartner, she offered a hasty “I’m sorry”, then found a newer brush and continued her quick task.
My head burned for a few hours after her sad attempt to wrangle my hair. I must be one of only a handful of Americans to know what it feels like to comb your hair with a porcupine.
Later as I thought about my experience, I thought some people are like that hair stylist. Instead of a weapon of ‘mousse destruction’ they carelessly and cluelessly use their mouth instead of a brush to do the marring. As a Christian I am always expected to forgive and move one, but what about the individual who consistently and carelessly is oblivious to the pain they inflict? If the hair stylist had just inspected her implement prior to me arriving, my head would not have felt like it was rototilled.
The fallout (forgive the pun) is, I may never want to go back or have a relationship with that person again. Word to the wise, check your tongue and your hair brush before you leave for work in the morning. I can take the occasional teasing a little easier on both counts.