Knowing it had been far too long since I’d written a blog post, I sat down last night and wrote one on disasters. It wasn’t bad, but I decided to sleep on it, and in re-reading it I thought it sounded a little flippant.
The last thing I posted about was my belief in the existence of God. It seemed in bad form to jump from that to whimsical observations in the face of natural disaster(s).
Of course, that’s been part of the problem. “Well I wrote this whole big thing on God! What the hell do I do now?” In the meantime I’ve also been writing other things, but I didn’t want to let the blog slip away. What to do, what to do?
Why, obviously I should write about the fact that my salon hired a shampoo dude.
Last night I went for a haircut. My stylist, who I’ve been going to for like eight or nine years and who does a wonderful job, also keeps getting more expensive. I try to go as long as possible between haircuts. I believe my last visit was early May. My hair was driving me absolutely bonkers so it was time. I called, got an appointment for right after work. Perfect.
When I arrived at the salon I checked in and sat to wait. I picked up a Discover magazine and my nose was buried in it when this really tall guy came out and said what I eventually realized was my name. I looked up and it clicked – oh, my turn to get taken back and shampooed. Apparently by this enormously tall young dude.
Walking back, he checked to make sure he had pronounced my name right. Immediately I reassured him that he had, that I had just not been paying particular attention. Then we arrived at the chairs for the shampooing, and I wondered. Had I ever been to a beauty salon as an adult woman and had my hair shampooed by a man? I don’t believe so! Usually the shampooing and other dirty work of the salon is done by teenaged girls. Usually teenaged girls are not quite so tall. Sometimes they are so short that they have to be careful not to squish portions of their anatomy into my face while scrubbing.
Clearly this would not be a problem this time. I sat back and took off my glasses and he fired up the faucet. Starting to wet down my hair, he checked that the temperature was all right and went to it. Yes, very professional. Well done, young man, I thought to myself, as if the art of shampooing was something that would not come naturally to a male. Hair thoroughly soaked he took up the shampoo and oh sweet merciful heavens. He started with a temple massage.
I immediately began a point-by-point shampoo critique in my head because frankly this was all terribly, awfully distracting. My strapping young shampooer was not unattractive, though I am hopeless at guessing ages and therefore had to assume that I was in fact old enough to be his mother. The simple fact of the matter is that having your head shampooed by another person is a tactile delight, regardless of who is doing the shampooing.
Ultimately what happened this time, though, was I spent far too much time concentrating in a very studious manner on whether he had rinsed the conditioner out sufficiently. I did this to avoid feeling like a dirty old woman. I was so engaged in this pastime (“Pretty thorough, but I think he needs to work on the head-lift and back-of-the-neck rinse”) that I utterly missed it when he said I could sit up. I am fairly certain the nice young man who does the shampooing at my salon now thinks I am partially deaf or entirely insensate.
He did a temple massage for the conditioner, too. You really can’t blame me for my distraction, is what I’m saying here.