Sitka or Bust: Commute The World

Leaving the farm I imagined I looked somewhat like a sasquatch emerging from the brush near an unsuspecting hiker. I hadn’t had a haircut in over a year (not even the farm’s fault, merely me being a tightwad) and my ends were more dead than the usual strand of hair. I don’t really understand that. How can dead ends really mean something horrific when you know that all portions of hair are actually already dead? It isn’t really an insult is it? I could point out the most beautifully coiffed woman and still have the audacity to say,”she’s got dead ends.” Totally true. Her hair might be more stylishly dead than the rest of ours, but I guess that’s like being a vampire versus a zombie. They’re both dead, but one just looks more preserved. Anyways, I digress.

I was getting pretty bushy, almost fro-like in my frazzled state. It was time for a trim, or really a nice, yet completely out of the box new style. Gasp. I’ve got to class it up, you know, with me starting a new job soon.

There’s something really nice about having someone else wash your hair. I don’t know what it is, really, but I remember laying on the kitchen counter when I was younger so my grandmother could wash my hair in the sink. That was nice and it really hasn’t lost its relaxing qualities. Of course, I showered before subjecting that lady to my hair. It was like pre-gaming. Sometimes a shower before a shower is just needed. I wasn’t expecting this appointment though, so my grand plans to get half my head shaved or a buzz cut or a weird asymmetrical bob were foiled by my complete lack of preparation time. Oh well. A trim cost just as much. Why not get the least amount of work done for the same price? Sarcasm, people, sarcasm.

I have a problem with beaked friends that hang in the treetops. They never fail to poop on me or snap at me with their oddly curved schnozzes so I usually avoid them. Oddly enough, hairdressers have to be of the fowl variety. They start out all gentle and nice, just lathering your hair and you can’t help but close your eyes and fall into a mellow near-slumber state. But no matter how nice that first portion of the washing is though, the hairdresser always turns into an angry fowl when she starts the styling. To me, it always feels like my scalp is getting ravaged by an angry goose, or maybe an ostrich.

You can be just sitting there, with your head tilted in a really awkward angle like they wanted you to do, then WHAM, the kung fu fingers start pecking at your head. I think they might be trying to fluff it, but really it just feels like an attack. It never fails. Every woman I’ve ever gone to has done this. And not only that, but when they’ve got the hair dryer scorching dry earth patches in your scalp they do the ‘atta boy’ open palm hair noogie that shakes your head from side to side. I think they get off on being as menially degrading as possible. Why else would they let you sit there with your arms trapped under the hair shield draped over you and completely blind you with strands of your own hair?