I have chronicled my deep, scary, and sometimes public hair challenges. And it has provided hours of laughter and gasps inside and outside my family. Today, however, I beat The Beast back a few yards. Today, I took back my hair.
Today, I got my hair relaxed. (Or, straightened, for those white chicks who aren’t “old school” with the hair terms.)
It took two-and-a-half hours of sitting, wetting, washing, slathering, combing, more sitting, rinsing (TEN MINUTES of rinsing at one point – timed!) and conditioning. You would think being able to spend two-and-a-half hours at the salon would be a treat, would be relaxing.
You would be wrong.
To anyone who is 5’9” tall, this is often times not a pleasant experience. You see, I cannot use the leg rest on the shampoo chairs because, well, my legs are too long and they trip people. Don’t get me wrong, I like having long legs, but sometimes there are sacrifices involved and keeping your knees bent at 90 degrees for two-and-a-half hours straight is one of them.
The only thing worse than the whole no straightening of the legs thing is the having to keep your neck arched at an inhuman and ridiculously uncomfortable angle. Shampoo sinks are not known for their comfort. Add two towels, two pieces of Saran Wrap plastic and a plastic-y cape wrapped around your neck and that whole inhuman thing gets out of control awfully fast. AND, it’s fucking HOT under there. Ugh.
THEN you have to keep your chin to your chest for 25 minutes so the back of your hair? That’s been combed stick straight with goo? Doesn’t inadvertently hit the back of your neck and cause it to bend and make a wave. You basically better have one helluva interesting book or magazine to read for that time, ‘cause looking down is all you can do.
Oh, and the stuff that makes your hair straight and lovely? Smells. Like a mixture of ammonia and sulfur – with a hint of orange mixed in for complete nausea.
At the end, you have lovely, straight hair that bounces when you walk like something out of Wella commercial. People ooh and aah and it’s wonderful. And now I don’t have to spend AN HOUR drying and flat-ironing my hair. I can once again join my family and break the shackle that is my Chi.
So, off I go to walk up to the cashier (or “revenue station” as my salon calls it) and it occurs to me I have NO IDEA how much this adventure is about to cost me. I had guessed a certain 3 figure amount, but really wasn’t sure.
See, my hairdresser and I have this little dance and understanding. She charges me a shitload of money and makes me look pretty, and I continue to come see her and thank the ever-loving lord that she exists and is willing to continue working with my hair. And today, TODAY people, her number was $20 cheaper than my head number.
It is a landmark day. She clearly had to have been drunk.