All About Hair

As I browsed through my Multiply photos and saw that I’ve been sporting the same long hair style for the past 10 years, I resolved to get a new cut. Who would have thought that it would take about eight agonizing hours in the salon to execute a five-minute decision?

At first, what I wanted was simple enough – a layered cut that falls just above the shoulders. But as I entered my favorite salon on a weekday morning and spoke to the hair stylist, I realized that hair technology has long evolved and nothing, it seems, is really that simple anymore when it comes to hair.

He was quick to fill me in on the latest FYI: “relax” is out, “rebond” is still in, but now there’s “volume straight”, which I was told would be just perfect for me.

No, no, no. I just wanted a simple cut, I told him. The hairstylist just raised an eyebrow, fingered my hair, and declared that it’s sinfully wavy, dull and unruly. Did I really want to spend hours blow-drying and styling my would-be short hair every time? Indeed, a sneaky question that turned my head.

I was still vain enough to be seduced by the promise of “wash and wear”, “instant shine”, and smooth, flip-worthy hair. But, more importantly, I imagined all those extra minutes I could sleep on workday mornings if I could just cut on grooming time. So finally, I took the plunge and said, “All right.”

Chopping off one-foot long of my hair took about 5 seconds. I almost cried. But then, the real torture began as a contingent of salon girls were assigned to work on my hair.

On the first hour, they killed the remains of my hair with a pungent substance to – ironically – give it “new life”. The second hour was a trial by fire as they “cooked” my hair under red lights. On the third hour, they pulled and stretched my hair with iron while my eyes blurred from reading and I could no longer feel my butt.

Just then, the stylist came by to inspect. I growled, “Is it done?” But he just pursed his lips and uttered one word to his minions, “Redo.”

While my tongue tied itself in disbelief, he sweetly explained, “I just want your hair to be perfect, give you your money’s worth.” The stylist was mad, I was sure. But when put that way, who was I to stand in the way of an artist toiling for perfection? Especially when the creation was my hair?

On the fifth hour, I wondered if it was all a mistake. Did I really need to cut my hair in the first place?

By the 6th hour, I was ready to scream. Only the sight of the girl in the mirror patiently ironing my hair for hours without complaint gave me pause. My pain must have been nothing compared to hers. Did she have superwoman powers?

Finally, on the 8th hour, the verdict was in. “Aahh, perfect!” the hairstylist crooned happily.

So much for vanity, I no longer cared. I was hungry and, to my chagrin, already late for a dinner meeting.


-- Published SunStar Weekend, 11/29/2008