Hair Me Out

Somewhere along the line, your hairdresser became your therapist, or should I say, hairapist. Incidentally, I am not referring to your hairdresser as a rapist of hair, but you know, we all have our own experiences. That may be true for you.

Why is it that we tell our hairapists everything? I used to feel sorry for hairdressers, having to cut and style hair whilst drowning in never-ending, self indulgent, petty client problems. But then I realized that’s what they want. Why else would they have salons filled with gossip magazines? That’s how they thrive. Don’t go to Confession, go to the hairdresser.

So, your hairapist has certain tools; sharp scissors, razors and hot appliances. Yes, these are all subtle weapons used to force you to speak. It’s a modern form of torture, enhanced by complimentary coffee or wine. Under such threatening conditioners you’ll blurt anything out. And you can’t exactly defend yourself from a comfy swivel chair, with your limbs concealed by a potentially flammable synthetic cape.

My fantastical hairdressing scenario:

Obviously, I am a superhero who has been captured for questioning. I attempt to escape and fly away with a swift flap of a hairdressing cape and my shimmering silver foil helmet. But alas, the torture chamber has been gassed with hair product, leaving me woozy and disoriented. I am led to another room and forced to lie back. Splash! Cold water surges endlessly onto my forehead. Then just as I come to, I am zapped by a brain frying heat gun. How can I save the world in this induced state? Snip, speak, snip, speak. All of my superhero secrets seem to fall out of my mouth uncontrollably. The torture session ends; a final blinding of the eyes with a hand held reflector from behind. I am stripped of my cape and my dignity.

Something like that.

And somehow I feel as though I have triumphed. In the words of Jack Donaghy, “After all, you hair is your head suit.”