In light of a breakup, the purging process is important. Things are piled into a cardboard box and the awkward exchange happens. It’s a bit like divorced parents meeting up in a McDonald’s parking lot to deliver kids as per custody terms.
A few nights accompanied by bottles of wine and movies with Colin Firth (or other babe of your choosing) and things start to look up. But mirrors are the worst and you hate your hair, keep the change train rolling.
This is not something to be entrusted at an establishment with 15 dollar cut and dry coupons. The time has come and you can and should spoil yourself. A happenstance walk-in to some salon you’ve never been. The receptionist is sweet and so fashionable its almost off-putting. Not a place you should be in worn out sneakers and dirty hair pulled back. But you smile anyway “Hi do you have any stylists available? Hopefully now before I changed my mind?”
“Of course! Kris had a last minute cancellation. Were you looking for a cut, color or both?”
“Everything.” It comes out in an unintended growl. “I mean, I will see what she thinks.”
“Kris is actually a ‘he’ if that’s alright.”
“Yes, that’s fine. I will just have a seat then?” The weird fancy chairs are actually comfortable and the magazine selection doesn’t suck (hey look, a copy of Bitch!). There’s coffee and tea for the wait.
A tall man wanders over. “Hi, I’m Kris. I’m your stylist today,” he beams.
WHAT IN THE FUCKING SHIT IS THIS? How is his long, dark hair just kinda flowy and breezy indoors? That slightly unbuttoned shirt? So rude. Do not try and peek at the chest hairs. Even if you can count them…
“So if you’ll follow me to my station, we can chat about what you like and get you shampooed.”
Right, so follow. Uhm don’t check out his ass. Ahw fuck, it’s like THERE. And you’re behind him. So just…you know…take a look. No harm in that. What a glorious bum, sweet baby jesus.
“Can I…take your hair tie out or can you for me?”
That accent, the slight…something. It’s pleasant. He can talk. He doesn’t seem like the annoying hair stylist type.
“I got it…So yeah, the hair is a dirty mess. Please don’t laugh at my roots, ok? I’ve been too broke and lazy to take care of them…Oh god the split ends. Wow.”
“It’s okay! It’s really not that bad. I will take care of you today. Don’t worry. What kind of cut and color do you want?”
“Seriously? No guidance or anything like that?”
“Its only hair. It grows back. Color is changeable. I want something new.” A new apartment, a new boyfriend, a new job, a new old car, a new city to live in, new favorite places that are mine…
There’s a mural on the ceiling, so there is something to look at while getting shampooed. No boring squares to count. But a picture with a soothing mix of colors. Kris still happily chatters as he delivers a scalp massage worthy of inappropriate moaning. But don’t do that. Or stare at his hair falling across his face. Colors, there on the ceiling. Take that in.
Kris mixes colors and quickly foils. The goo in the bowls a bit of a mystery, given how dye develops. He stands in front of the mirror, so the color is still unknown but there’s an idea of what it is as chunks of hair tumble.
“Alright, this a good change?” Kris asked when he finished drying and styling every hair to perfection. “You don’t have to worry about it, wash and go and you’re gorgeous.”
“Thank you. It’s perfect.”
“Awesome. I’m glad you like it. Be sure to come back soon. Not just when some bastard breaks your heart,” he says with a wink. “Here’s my card. The number on the back in my cell. I’d love to take you out for a drink. Or to a hockey game. Even if you cheer for the wrong team.”
“Wrong team? You’re the one with poor choices in teams!”