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A little background. I have fine hair. I mean really fine, like baby fine. Not every hairdresser knows how to cut hair like mine, and consequently I’ve had some really bad hair cuts over the years. Like the time the hair around the crown of my head that stood straight up, or the time the sideburns were choppy and uneven. Bad memories.
I’d been going to a former hairdresser for a long time, not because I really liked the way she did my hair but more because it had become routine. She was a nice person, and we bonded over our love of dogs. Anyway, when my husband started going to another salon and he liked the cuts he was getting, I decided to give it a try. This is a national chain that charges about half of what my former hairdresser charged for a cut, so that was a big incentive. I made the jump.
At the chain salon I met M. And miracle of miracles, she gave me a very good cut for an excellent price. My problems were over!
M. is a little… strange. After several cuts I discovered she really likes to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk. Sometimes she would stop cutting my hair to make some point. I wanted to scream “Just cut my flipping hair already!” Don’t get her started on Vladimir Putin, and the politics of eastern Europe. For a few haircuts in a row, she had a story about someone who had just died. I don’t mean to sound flippant, but I was starting to get depressed at the thought of having to get my hair cut. I came to the end of my rope when during one cut she started bad-mouthing the entire veterinary profession in my province, not knowing that I work for the professional association for veterinarians. Enough was enough.
I complained to my colleagues at work and one of them gave me the name of her hairdresser. So I made an appointment with T. She is a lovely young woman and I get along great with her. I’m relaxed when I’m in her salon. But her haircuts…average at best. And they’re expensive. I’m back to square one.
I needed a decent cut.
So, I went back to M. for a cut. She took one look at the highlights in my hair and said, “You didn’t get those highlights here.”
Me: “Umm, no.”
M.: “This is not my cut.”
Me: “Umm, no.”
M.: “Did they use clippers to cut your hair?”
Me: “Umm, I don’t think so.”
M.: (muttering something I can't print here under her breath)
She expressed her passive-aggressiveness by spraying me in the face with her water bottle, followed by a whole lot of uncomfortable silence. Not so talky anymore.
When she finished, she showed me the back with a mirror. “This is the best I can do because it was so uneven.” I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I probably mumbled something profound, like “Umm, okay.”
Finally, it was over. I thanked her (I am Canadian, after all. We’re polite. I say “Sorry” when someone steps on my foot.) and left the salon. I’m sure M. had a few choice things to say about me when I left.
So now I’m wondering if I should suck it up and go for the good haircuts at a decent price with M. or have a lovely, relaxing time with T., even if I don’t care for the cuts as much and I have to pay more. Such a dilemma.
Why do we feel so guilty about changing hairdressers? What would you do, fellow Word Wranglers and faithful readers? I need help!