I would much rather overpay for a haircut than have to do math in my head. That’s why I subject myself to a “no tipping” salon where everyone wears black and treats the banana clip holding up my bun like a diseased relic.
At this salon, there is always at least one dude wearing makeup and black leather pants and I spend a lot of time getting shuffled from one holding area to another. But I endure it because at thirty-seven years old, I can no longer introduce drastic change into my life.
Because my regular stylist is very busy juggling three clients at once, I spend a lot of time with her assistant. As far as I can tell, Tiffany’s only duty is to wash my hair and keep the conversation flowing, even when I’m faking sleep.
She always asks me if I have a boyfriend and I always have to tell her “no.”
I can tell Tiffany feels sorry for me because I have gray hairs and no boyfriend, so she offers me a free facial and makeup. Which I decline because I don’t like people touching my face and besides, I have to get back to my kids who are puking at home.
Now Tiffany is devastated because I am a single mom with no plans for the evening.
One time she tried to talk with me about the Real Housewives of the Whatever, and I had to break it to her that I don’t watch TV.
“You don’t have a TV?”
“No, I have one. I just hardly ever watch it. I don’t know why.”
I am a lost cause.
Finally, finally, Tiffany gives up.
It’s times like these I miss my old Ukrainian stylist, Nadia. I broke up with her ten years ago and still have to hide when I see her at the mall. But even though she spoke no English, wielded her scissors like a weapon, and gave me the highlights of a skunk, we always spent our time together in amicable silence.
And when you’re thirty-seven with gray hairs, no boyfriend, and puking kids at home, there’s a lot to be said for that.Did you like this? Subscribe to the blog. (It's free!)