The power of the hairdresser

“Hello there,” she said dryly, sauntering over to where I sat nervously.

She’d kept me waiting for half an hour at least, and although I had somewhere to be in less than an hour, I never once complained or attempted to hurry her. At times I’d send a worried glance over in her direction, but she simply ignored me.

And so begins the countless mind games of the hairdresser.

Some may write them off as a bunch of uneducated bimbos, but trust me, these girls and guys are in one of the most powerful professions.

They’re up there with waxers, shop assistants and door bitches.

Why? Because they hold your fate in their hands, and if you’re rude to them or they don’t like you, watch out because they are armed: with scissors, searing hot wax or a simple “no you’re not getting in, sorry.”

Don’t believe me? One of my friends was once rude to a beautician. Five minutes later, she had a gap in her eyebrow the size of a small island just before a huge party.

For fear of being scorned, she didn’t go to the party and thus missed out on – who knows what? But it certainly would have been better than sitting at home in pyjamas and whimpering.

Yep, her fate for the night was held in that beauticians’ well moisturised hands.

Another of my friends was in a bad mood the day of her haircut, and was snappy towards the hairdresser. She looked down to read her magazine, then looked up again fifteen minutes later to see a mullet-style haircut and her hairdresser smiling smugly. 

As for me, I hadn’t been to my usual hairdresser in well over a year now – pretty much a dumping in any hairdresser’s books. We were the best of friends in hairdresser world, and my hair benefited from it – my mop was a shiny, swishy haven. But then I got bored. Started to look around, and found someone else. Someone who would be a bit more adventurous and let me put a few highlights in here and there.

Unfortunately my new hairdresser ruined the state of my hair with a bad dose of peroxide and now I have to come crawling back to the old one, and she ain’t happy.

I’m being punished now, of course. With the long wait, the crappy magazines set in front of me, and the cold coffee. Now she’s running her hands through my hair, tsking, while I cower in fear.

“Look what they’ve done to you.” She said disapprovingly. “I can’t believe you went to someone else and let them do this…” she trailed off, hurt, while I avoid her eye and stare at the floor.

“I’m sorry…” I say. “Um…I was actually living overseas for the past year…and then one day I was minding my own business when this crazy man who didn’t speak English came up to me and started to cut my hair, and…”

The lie is terrible, poorly executed, and doesn’t work on her. “Hmm.” She simply says flatly, folding her arms.

I’m starting to think by this stage that not being monogamous in a hair relationship is truly worse than a normal relationship. The cruel words, awkward lies, and disappointed stares are all too much for me.
Eventually she works away at my hair, as I sit there sweating. Luckily she doesn’t do too much revenge-fuelled damage. The fee is $50 more than she usually charges, but I pay it with a thankful smile and rush away, promising her I’ll never cheat again.

Was this guilt trip she put on me just an excuse to get more money? Probably, but I’m certainly not going to go through that one again. If you’ve ever been one of the many people who have been the bearer of a bad haircut but simply smiled and said “that’s great” tearfully when the hairdresser asks you if it’s ok, you know what I’m talking about.

They have the power.