A Salon Chronicle
Vulnerability creeps into my lap as I settle into the salon chair, while a stylist towers over me, examining my hair with great interest. Then, she morphs into a crafty storyteller, mixing morsels of truth with layers of deception, much like blending various shades of hair dyes into a harmonious hue.
I strive not to yield. I maintain an impassive facade, avoid answering unnecessary questions, and refuse to engage in her attempts at conversations.
I’ve rehearsed this with my hubs. I’m ready for this.
“No, thank you,” I said. “I only need the cut and wash service.”
A nearby conversation about dry and oily hair – strikingly similar to the one I had just experienced – visibly stressed the lady in the chair, prompting the stylist to offer soothing words: “Don’t be stressed; it’s okay. Take a moment to think about it (whether to opt for the very expensive treatment).” She left her client entangled in a new wave of insecurities.
The stylist has done her job.
I see whispered exchanges among the stylists, perhaps discussing how they’ve worn down their clients in the room: Who can be upsold? Who resists? Who needs a little more persuasion before they concede?
The visibly stressed lady waved the stylist over; a sheep surrendering herself to the wolf.
Shouldn’t this be a place of relaxation, instead of one where you feel small and stressed?
I wish, like 22 in Soul, I could one day revel in the salon.
