The Time I Got My Haircut (Part 1)

For over 2 years now I have been getting my haircut by one person. I do this for 2 reasons, the first (like anyone else) is because she great work. The second is because one of my greater anxieties in life is trying to explain to the stylist what I want my hair to look like. So when you go to the same person for over 2 years they have a pretty good idea of what exactly you need. We got the process down to a science, and made each appointment less than 30 minutes (depending on if I get a mini facial, of course).

But this had to come to an end, I am moving to Chicago and I needed to grow up, so to speak. Luckily my stylist works for the Aveda branch of salons and theoretically, they all learn the same techniques and can use them. I asked my stylist to tell me exactly what to say (which it turns out, is an incredibly complicated, almost medical sounding system using words like occipital and paretial). Anxieties quelled.

So today I made an appointment at the Aveda Institute (where my stylist TEACHES!), but where students practice cutting hair. I entered to what seemed more like a laboratory than a salon and was quickly confused as there were two front desks (one near the door and one in the middle of the room). I choose the one near the door, and they looked puzzled as to why I was checking in there. So I was sent to the other. As this was happening, a friend of friend saw me, yelled for me to come over and basically confused me to the point of retardation.

I finally recognized her, said hello and went to check in. I sign a form that says (essentially) “THESE ARE STUDENTS, IF WE DESTROY YOUR HAIRCUT, WE ARENT TO BLAME.” I signed, thinking at least this is cheaper and I have instructions, how bad can it be. I was told to wait by the benches (which were hidden). After finally finding the benches, my new stylist (we’ll call her Buffy) came and got me and shook my hand with what seemed to be a limp (possibly artificial) limb. Weakest handshake ever.

She asks what I need and I tell her about my instructions and she immediately cringes and calls a supervisor. The supervisor comes over, looks at the instructions and tells her “you know how to do this.” Buffy’s face says otherwise.