It was a simple question really, but as I heard the words, I felt my head cock to one side like my dog, Jack when I ask if he wants to go for a walk.
I listened, and then my eyes glazed over for a moment or two. I thought about the word need… Necessary?Required? To be in want? Hmmmmmm. Aren’t most of us women “in want” of the perfect hairstyle, color, makeover, or man? I thought about the countertop, drawers, and cabinets in my not very large bathroom already crammed and overflowing with bottles, jars, tins, in various shapes and sizes. Most tried once or twice and then discarded. Not discarded all together mind you, just living in the land of oops, that didn’t work like in the salon discarded.
I heard the words, what was that small spritz bottle you used, come out of someone’s mouth. Apparently, it was mine. “Volumizer,” she responded, smiling that all knowing smile while the loud and shrill otherworld cha-ching rang somewhere in the salon’s altered state background. I could have sworn that she glanced at all of the other gurus who were busy snipping, shaping, or straightening someone’s style. A small smirk seemed to graze all of their faces in one synchronized swoop.
“Sure, I’ll take a bottle of that.” What could it hurt? Somehow, she’d managed to make my new look seem as thick and full as twenty years ago. Okay, so I already knew I was buying a bottle of something I’d use once, maybe twice, hopefully three times, and that would be that. Still, I could dream, couldn’t I?
“Just that, it’ll never look like that again.”
“Now, wait a minute.” I countered. “I can do this one.”
“Yeah right,” he chuckled, and flew out the door.
Well, okay, maybe he was right. I’ve never actually had the style the stylists gave me for more than a day. It’s true. No matter what product I buy from them to ensure that I’ll achieve the result that they do, it just doesn’t happen. My hair has a life of its own. It does what it wants. Humidity… it’s big, wavy, curly, wild woman hair. Middle of winter… it’s as smooth as if I’d spent hours with the straightening iron. The color… well, these days, let’s just say that we’re never really sure what shade it’s going to be after a week or two. Or three. Or six.
You know what? It’s so much effort, time, and energy. And for what? My son is right. It’ll never look just walked out of the salon perfect when I do it. After all, as my other resident expert, my daughter likes to remind me… “She’s a professional, Mom. Geeeeez.”
So, at my next appointment in six, eight, maybe ten weeks when I finally can’t take it anymore, and I once again sit in that mesmerizing chair, staring at a face that I’m starting not to recognize, fanaticizing about a fabulous new look, I’ll be prepared. When she comes in for the close and I hear, Do you need product? I’ll stay strong… for about a minute, I’m sure. Then, I’ll remember that she is a professional and somewhere in my brain the age old reminder that Only her hairdresser knows for sure will rewind and play.
You know where this will end. I’ll hand over my credit card because, mostly, I do need product. Don’t we all?
Just ask your favorite professional. Geeeeez.