Don’t you love it when you work up the nerve to get a completely new hairstyle or cut then, look at the stylist’s hair who is going to do it for you to see them wearing a hat or some other type of head covering? It’s off-putting to say the least because let’s face it, it takes courage to make up your mind to try it in the first place. No matter how secure we feel within ourselves as people, change is difficult for most of us. Can you spell “anxiety attack”? I can.
Before going in to see a hairstylist, I take inordinate amounts of time, looking at photos, assessing the shape of my face, what will suit me best and even though I may not be able to grasp the right look for me in terms of colour, cut or shape, I do have an idea in my mind as to what it will look like when done. Getting my hair changed drastically, like even a trim for me, will result in hours upon hours of dreading it in advance. We’re talking sweating, heart racing, cold or sweating palms and ready to find the nearest washroom in which to throw up if I need to do so.
Printed photos in hand, hours of sleepless nights, thinking, worrying and agonizing over it all, in I go to a salon to see what I can only describe as a “Gasping Moment”. Not only has the hairstylist I’ve chosen got some sort of strange colour and cut (like red and orange or black and red with assymetrical sides that has seen one side shaved nearly balding which I am trying to hide) but, they’ve got tattoos all over their arms and neck, along with rings and piercings that look like overkill and torture. Uhhhh…this isn’t the hairstylist for me. That much I know right there and then. I spin on my heels and walk right back out through that door that I entered the salon through and without explanation as to why I’m not going to stay for my appointment.
Ten days later, hair colour “ooooppsss” moments later, hair splitting and scalp near bleeding with a totally different colour than what was expected, I decide yet again that it’s time for a professional to sort this total wreck out for me.
Back to the drawing board but, this time, I’ve got the photos printed out or on my cell phone and I know at least one hairstylist who isn’t for me, personally.
Off I go to Salon Number 2, wanting to take a breath and drink a lake full of water or something stronger if I could.
Salon 2 is another unknown to me but, hey, after one disaster with hair colour, any professional has to be better, right? Not so fast in answering that one yet. I got ahead of myself with a bit more confidence but, still having anxious breathing and feelings.
The stylist came out, tuna or chicken salad dripping off of their mouths, still chewing something or other, hair in a hat so that I can’t see it. What happened? Do they love the hat so much that they’re willing to wear it in 90 degree heat or, have they had one of those frightful experiences with a stylist themselves. That leaves me with 2 thoughts:
1: This stylist has no class even in her choices of hats or stylists for themselves.
2: The food that she’s been eating and still chewing on, drips of sauce down their smock are telling me that they are a slob, don’t do it.
No matter which way I looked upon the situation, a touque in 90 degree weather with food dropped down her bossoms are not exactly my cup of tea. Out again I go, letting the chair spin in circles as I literally run back through their door, again without explanation.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not as though I’m some beauty queen nor, do I want something fancy but, I’d like at least a stylist who not only looks semi-normal to me, personally and, one who at the least, isn’t hiding some possible “oh my gawd” moment under a hat or scarf. Heaven forbid she should be wearing a wig to cover it all up. At the least, there shouldn’t be any form of food slopped down their t-shirts or whatever they might be wearing.
Again, please don’t get me wrong. It’s not as though I was choosing the cheapest of salons at all nor, was I considering having that haircut that would cost me a year’s worth of mortgage payments but, I was going to places that had been given great reviews online as well as being a modestly priced place for what they were about to do.
Door Number 4 and 3 weeks later, I’m in dire straights and really need a cut and colour. With determination, I toss all of my researching online for reviews and enter a salon closer to me but, still within that guideline for price, only to find the stylist’s hair looking worse than mine did! Uhhhh…what’s wrong with this picture? Did they not know about a comb, brush, some shampoo, conditioner, hair dryer and even some soap for their bodies to get rid of B.O.? Ok, not for me. You get the drill of how fast I’d spun on my heels, right?
A week of complaining bitterly and whining to my husband, resorting to a hat which I don’t suit later, I take a chance, walking in off of the street to one of the cheapest haircut places I could imagine and take that chance with no appointment.
Much to my delight, the stylist about to take me on, is dressed normally, no sauce drips down their shirts, they know what a comb, brush and other parephenalia they require for themselves, let alone customers and she looked like she not only had great hair but, it wasn’t purple, green or some shade that I would never wear on myself. She was also closer to my age. I let her do the work, which I’d scaled back tremendously to “just a trim” with some colour corrections. The bill was amazingly small by comparison to the other salons I’d been in with weeks worth of waiting and agonizing over it all, reading reviews like they were addictive candies.
True, I did look so much better. I felt it and my self-esteem was back. I even had enough money left over to buy my now dragged through the mud husband who was so relieved that I’d finally done something, a coffee and dessert each. Win-win, right?
Well, that elation lasted until the next morning when I awoke with what one can call “bed hair”. Uggghhhh…showering was one of the worst things I could have done as I washed it and attempted to restyle it all, only to have colour coming out in the shower not to mention hair falling out like there had been chemotherapy done on me. Not only was I back to square one but, I was poorer, looked worse than I did before but, I had half coloured hair to boot…what was left of it that is.
Two days of wearing hats again and crying, my husband wearing earplugs to not have to listen to me complain and whine yet again, I made that phone call to a previous hair stylist that I’d gone to years ago. The only thing she could do was to chop it all off so short that it looked like I’d had a barber take a pair of clippers to it. It was the Halley B. cut, I’d termed it. Fact was, it was shorter than my husband’s hair and I couldn’t even wrap it around a pencil. Yikes! What I sight I must have been. I didn’t even want to appear in public until it grew back again. The show must go on though, right? Makeup and earrings, don’t fail me now.
From my little corner of life to yours, if you find a hairstylist that you like and will work with you and your hair type, go with them. I waited until my own hair had grown out enough to be coloured and shaped again, asking another sylist in that shop to do my hair. I’ve been going there for over 20 years now and only to her. I’m happy with what she does though, I will say that I have to be careful in what I ask for because she will knock it down as quick as look at my hair to tell me that it won’t suit me or my hair type, scrumpling up the printed photos and doing what she thinks is best. I leave it up to her now.
As a P.S….I’ve since coloured my own hair twice in order to save time and money. Guess what? It’s come out to be far worse than anything she could have done and I won’t be attempting that on my own anymore in spite of what they considered “salon formulas” or what women do to themselves for a YouTube video “tutorial”.
You can’t beat a hairstylist you can trust!
Be well, love and light,
Have a GREAT day/evening!