So, I got my hair done on Thursday. My first time since we moved here, in fact. My cousin is getting married next weekend, and I wanted to look all cute and stuff, like we women-folk are wont to do. But the outcome of this haircut is not what I'm here to tell you about. Oh no, that would be pretty boring. I'm here to tell you ll about the events surrounding and during the hair appointment, because they are far more interesting.
Except that a few hours later, she called me again. I was busy, and didn't answer, so she sent me a text message requesting that I call her. Okay...? So while I was making our dinner, I decided to call her back, just to make sure she didn't need to reschedule. It turns out she just "felt bad" that she had to rush our earlier conversation, and just wanted to chat. Uhm... thanks, but my introverted self doesn't want to make small talk to a stranger over the phone. I have a mother for doing that with. So I get her off the phone, and she immediately sends me several LONG text messages with directions to her salon (helpful), and a full recap of the conversation we just had (pointless). At this point, I was about 10 seconds from cancelling my appointment, but I had already dropped $57 on this venture, and I decided that my hard earned money shouldn't go to waste... after all, it could be a great haircut and highlights, right?
So Thursday evening I get to the salon a few minutes early, and it's obvious she isn't there. No problem, I just worked all day. A few minutes alone in my car scrolling through Instagram and Facebook is like heaven. My social anxiety and depression have been pretty bad since we moved, and going straight from work to an appointment with a chatty hairstylist had me in a near panic. Except, my bliss was shattered when she called me to tell me that she was running late, and to "chat" yet again. I assured her repeatedly that I didn't mind the delay (because I really wanted to take off for the hills screaming at this point), and tried to dodge her attempts to drag me into a conversation. So I scrolled a little faster through Facebook, desperately searching for those last minutes of peace before the deluge of anxiety riddled conversation that I knew was coming. Boy, did it not disappoint.
So, she arrives at the salon. We walk in, and I start explaining my strange hair, and exactly what I want. We fumble through the consultation and I hope that maybe, just maybe, she will read body language and realize that I'm not a chatty hair client. I'm a bliss out in peaceful quiet for 2.5 hours client. Instead, she launches into a barrage of personal questions, including asking me if I have kids, and if we want kids. I tell her yes, and that we would like them sooner rather than later. Immediately, she responds with -
"Oh, I have a recipe for that. It's so natural, and even women with fertility issues always get pregnant when they try it. Even women who try IVF."
So, I nod and laugh nervously, hoping she realizes I don't want to know her secret recipe and more than I want to know what McDonald's puts in their "special sauce". Instead, I get treated to -
"It's all about position. You have to do doggy style, and then stay with your hips in the air for 20 minutes afterward to keep everything inside you."
Oh God. I've been here 20 minutes, and she's telling me about how to have sex with my husband. Someone please send a life raft equipped with Xanax. She has color on my hair now, there's nowhere for me to go. What am I supposed to do? She's asking me even more personal questions now, and I'm so shocked that I'm just answering every question she asks. It's like my own 5th circle of hell in that little salon chair as she tries to find out more about me than my closest friends know in under an hour.
And then she asks me if I have life insurance on my husband. And this is where things take a turn and I just start outright lying to her. She is asking specifics about what kind of policy it is, how much it's worth, what the long term benefits are. Luckily, I know enough about life insurance to tell her all about a policy that we don't actually have, because I'm convinced that her goal is either to a) steal my or my husband's identity, or b) kill my husband so that I can get his life insurance proceeds. Neither option is very appealing to me, honestly.
By now, I've been there for almost 2 hours, and I still have foils on my head. She keeps repeating bits of our conversation entirely out of context, and it's freaking me out. I have nothing to say, and I just want to run away, even if it means losing the value of my groupon, but again, she as me by the hair, and I'm worried that if I wait until I'm home to take the foils out of my hair, it's going to be bright orange (I worry about this because one time my cousin had a reaction to hair-dye once that streaked her hair safety-cone orange. Sexy). So I'm still stuck. THEN it hits me: if she puts me under the dryer, she won't be able to talk to me. Why I didn't think of this sooner, I don't know. So, I get her to put me under the dryer because I know it will move the foils along faster, and simultaneously keep her from telling me about the intricacies of sexual positions as they relate to various reproductive goals. It's the most relaxing, wonderful 15 minutes of the entire 3.5 hours I was there, I tell you.
I think I blacked out most of the rest of the appointment, but I do remember her talking to me about how she isn't attracted to her husband physically, and how she never wanted to marry someone who was charming or attractive. Which was weird, because she had just asked me to show her pictures of Ammon, where I had pointedly mentioned I found him to be very attractive. I think she also tried to find out exactly where I live. I told her our apartment complex's name, and took heart that it's a big complex... the chances that she'll figure out which apartment is ours are slim.
And at last, I was ready to escape with hair that doesn't meet my expectations for a "good" haircut, but was good enough. But she follows me out the door chatting the whole way, and demanding that I follow up with her about how much I like my hair. She also asks me to text her when I get home. She also tells me that now I have a friend in the area, and she will tell me all of the best places to get food, drinks, household goods, etc. Uhhhhh, when did we become friends??? I was working hard to be polite, because all women know that the cardinal rule of the hair salon is to never piss off the stylist. But I definitely was not trying to give off the "let's be friends vibe".
I texted her when I got home, because I knew that if I didn't, she would be calling me to inquire about my whereabouts, or might even do a drive-by of the complex. She sent me three text messages in response, and reminded me again that I have a "friend" in the area.
It's a good thing that I live right next to the police station.