I know this blog is primarily about my artwork, but this was too terrible, depressing, and I'm sure in a couple years time, laughable not to share.
The salon in question was one I had visited before and since I enjoyed my last cut I saw no reason not to return. I made an appointment and though my former hairdresser wasn't available, I needed a cut before returning home for the holidays so I accepted someone else. A tough decision for me since I tend to have enough pre-haircut anxiety to begin with.
Upon entering the salon I was greeted by the very sweet owner, chatting about the holidays before she asked what I'd like done with my hair. I explained that I was only really wanting a trim and re-layering, nothing crazy or different. That's when my hairdresser, the only one working that day, came around the corner. A small, thin man who apparently, spoke no English at all. Anxiety up a few points. The owner translated to him what I'd like done, and we headed for the chairs.
Within moments he had jumped right in, not even bothering to wet down my hair or even brush it through first. Every cut he made was a flourish, as if he were performing magic tricks for an audience, scissors whipping about, hair being tossed every which way and a bravado that would rival a Japanese steak house chef. This is when I learned that a haircut could be painful, every cut was made by yanking my hair along with the scissors leaving my skull tingling painfully.
This is when I realized that he wasn't making layers, he was THINNING my hair. Now I pride myself on my nice, thick, layered hair, but before I knew it my hair was getting thinner and flatter. I tried to quickly mention that I did not want my hair thinned, I liked the thickness, to which he nodded and muttered a quick "ok ok" at me before continuing on. At this point I am reminding myself to breathe.
As the magic show continued, his flourishes got the better of him when he moved a bit too quick and sliced into his own finger. He quickly leaves the room without a word, leaving me stunned staring at my half-cut, completely frizzed hair in the mirror. A few silent moments passed in which I tried very hard not to panic. The owner returned, smiling as if nothing was wrong, and starting digging for bandages before disappearing once more. Finally he returned, and though I was distinctly more uncomfortable with my hairdresser's qualifications at this point, I had no choice but to let him dive back in and attempt to finish the cut.
Panic level rising with each cut, he finally lead me to the hair washing station. I lay back and try to calm my ever heightening anxiety as he started to wash my hair. When I looked up, to my complete dismay, I was staring straight into his armpit, which hovered an inch from my face, the long black pit-hairs threatening to brush my nose. Closing my eyes, I tried to find my happy place to forget the armpit in my face, when suddenly the calm hair wash transitioned drastically into a spastic, skull-squeezing, almost painful massage. The transition was so sudden I almost yelped out loud, startled by what felt more like an attack at my skull than a wash. Stunned silent, I was lead back to the chair, and sat back down.
At this point my hair dresser had to leave to re-bandage on his finger, and I frantically checked to make sure his last bandage wasn't left clinging to my hair after the wash. He returned, started the drying, and I came to realize that he had not trimmed my hair nor had he layered it. So, after a moment or two of complete miscommunication, I asked him if he could call the owner in to translate. After a few translated requests (Specifically asking NOT to thin my hair any more) he finally trimmed it down.
Once the dust settled on my now flat, thin and lifeless hair, the owner came in and calmly explained to me that although I never asked for my hair to be thinned, it was for my own good, since thick hair would just look 'heavy' and the thin hair would be light. After asking repeatedly "Do You like it?" in a manner that didn't really encourage any answer but 'Yes,' I, somewhat reluctantly, handed over my credit card. I was then asked, right in front of the waiting hairdresser, how much I'd like to leave for tip. Not wanting a confrontation with two individuals, one of which was wielding sharp scissors, I calmly paid a decent (though not generous) tip and left.
So now I'm left with a painfully tingling flat haired skull, praying God will help me grow some back in the next week. As much as I liked my regular hair dresser, I really don't know if I will be able to make myself return.
Perhaps they hoped that if the experience was terrible enough, I would have no choice but to be thankful and happy to simply be free, bad haircut or not.