My hairdresser is kind of a spaz.
She has a habit of pumping up the chair while I am sitting in it and then, quite out of the blue for no apparent reason, she pumps it back down. Up. Down. Up. Up. Down. It makes me sort of sick to my stomach and on edge. Someone stop this ride I want off!
She’s a little. . . rough. There is a time and place for rough and it is not in the hairdresser’s chair. She thrashes the comb through my hair. She violently scrubs my scalp while washing my hair. And the towel drying? Ouch. And worse, she’s a patter. She frequently pounds on my shoulder area and it does not feel like a massage. I’m still unclear why. To tap hair off the scissors? To wipe her hands? Possibly for dramatic effect? Maybe she thinks it adds to her stories? She is very fond of storytelling but. . . unfortunately, she’s not really good at it. I basically can’t get a word in edgewise- not even as a response to what she is saying. It’s like I don’t even have to be there.
Yammer. Yammer. Blah blah. Yammer.
You know when you meet someone and all of a sudden your communication just feels left of center? It’s like that. Like when you’re walking down the street, passing people left and right with ease and then ALL OF A SUDDEN OUT OF NOWHERE comes this person who goes right when you go left thus blocking you so you do this awkward sidewalk dance where neither of you can GET OUT OF EACH OTHERS WAY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
She’s one of those people except with words.
But she does good hair. So I’m basically fucked.