Funnily enough my first post has fallen upon the day that I ventured to the dreaded land of the hairdressers. I say dreaded… its just a small building where people venture to have their hair changed, coloured, removed.
I don’t have my hair cut that often.
Now I’m not one for caring what I look like, I just want my hair to be shorter than it was when I walked in and, you know, not have that annoying clump at the back that appears every single morning regardless of if you slept on a pillow like most humans or hung from a tree like some sort of real life bat man…
The actual act of having my hair cut has never been the issue.
There was this one time I allowed them to wash my hair. I wasn’t planned and nor will I be letting them do it again. Does anyone actually find that a relaxing process? Having your neck snapped to look like you have just been hit by a lorry, being twisted into position into the sink and then having water that alternated between “fucking freezing” and “jesus fucking christ hot” whilst a trainee jabs their fingers into your scalp – I’ve never washed my hair this way.
I can even put up with the odd stab to my head or having my ear half sawn off by a comb covered in the last customers greasy grey hair.
The problem I have and Im sure, like positive, that I’m not the only person that has this gripe is the unknown and unnamed artist stood behind you.
“What can we do for you today”
This is the question we all get asked and this hits me as one of those… what do you call them – rhetorical questions.
I start to get hot and bothered (or pissed off as some would say) I start thinking the obvious – Have a look around you right this moment lil miss scissorhands. I’m sat in a hairdressing chair, surrounded by scissors and them buzzy things and that bottle of spray that is 5 minutes from being sprayed in my eye balls. Give me one other reason why Iam here.
So now that dilemma is out of the way…
“How would you like it cutting”
Oh I don’t know, shall we mix things up. Why don’t you try cutting my hair with a wooden spoon… idiot.
Honestly? I have no fucking idea. I don’t care to look like a celebrity, an actor, or someone that people dream to be. I want my hair cutting – simple.
But it’s not simple and never will be simple.
So apparently it’s stylish to have shorter hair on the back and sides of your head and have it longer on the top – sure, that sounds super exciting…
But it then gets harder – “What number would you like it” – Now don’t get me wrong, I work in finance. I’m good with numbers, even the big ones. But I genuinely have no idea what “number” I want on my head and having your hair cut isn’t like using a calculate, you can’t start again when you mess up!
By this time, I’ve been sat in the chair long enough to have had my hair cut but I still have to answer questions. Yet Im not even at the bit that annoys me the most!
So ten minutes in – we have come to the conclusion that I want my hair two different lengths, one being cut with scissors and the other is a number 3… whatever that is… I guess its better than having a number 2 on your head…
The cutting starts and all is well, we are working towards the one thing I came in here to accomplish and the one thing said chopper is paid to do.
But then, for some unknown and bizarre reason questions start getting fired at me, questions that have no relevance to the fuzzy mess upon my head and questions I know Sergeant Scissors a) has no business asking and b) could not give two shits about…
It riles me.
Questions get asked… “what are you doing today”… “where do you work”… “are you going on holiday this year”
My answers are polite. Short but polite… I’m working today, at my place or work and yes Im going on holiday… but in my head I can feel myself screaming “How about you be quite, just shhh, cut my hair and take my fucking money”
My comfort levels drop to zero, I would rather be sat in complete silence, or even asleep to be honest – I couldn’t give a shit.
The questions are always the same and always those bloody questions that can lead to another question… “where are you going on holiday”
I can’t think off of the top of my head any other job that involves asking the same boring, pointless questions as every single unfortunately soul that walks in to a hairdressers.
I know I sound like a grumpy old bastard, but this kind of crap drives me up the wall. I’ve never walked in to any other business to be smothered in questions by a complete random who thinks that because they are touching my head that must equate to us being friends. It doesn’t.
Other people must think this too?
Surely it can’t just be me? Or is it…