The value of prettiness

I hate getting my hair cut.

I had an appointment with my stylist today and, at some point during the multi-hour process, it dawned on me:

I would rather go to the dentist for two hours than be here.

In fact, if I could – and logistics made it a feasible alternative – I think I would rather get my wisdom teeth removed every six weeks than get my hair done.

I hate getting my hair cut.

The problem always begins as I’m sitting there, when all I have to do – for two hours – other than make small talk with my stylist or thumb through mindless magazines, is stare at myself in the mirror. Invariably, at some point while doing this, I begin to feel incredibly un-pretty.

Now, that’s not to say I feel that way in general. I feel pretty when I get ready for work on Monday or when I go out on Friday nights. I can even feel pretty in a ponytail running errands on Saturday morning.

But there’s something about the experience of the salon – wrapped up to your neck in what feels like a plastic garbage bag, shuffling around from the stylist’s chair to the sink, and then staring at yourself, with your wet hair pulled back, and scrutinizing the bags under your eyes – that makes you feel utterly un-pretty.

Now typically, being made to feel “un-pretty” in isn’t a big deal. Nobody expects to feel “pretty” while standing in line at the DMV, picking up after their dog, or visiting the gyno. When it comes to salon visits, though, “feeling pretty” is exactly what you’re ultimately paying several hundred dollars for.

So why should we be made to feel the opposite during the appointment?

And it can't just be me, because there are some critical "human" qualities missing at the salon...

When it comes the cut… I expect them to preserve some of my hair – after all, we agreed in the beginning that it was “very fine” – and it’s like nails on a chalkboard when they suddenly start “texturing” it, sliding their scissors along the strand of hair. (We definitely didnt agree to that! Who wants to pay for that sensation?) But I typically don't say anything, because again, by this point, I've come to terms with the fact that just about the entire process makes me uncomfortable. So I sit there in silence as the hair on my arms stands on end under the garbage bag.

And then the blow dryer – it’s always too hot or goes on for far too long. While my stylist is concentrating on his handiwork, I’m busy calculating the stress he’s causing my hair, utterly neurotic in my conviction that he’s frying what little is left of it after the “texturizing” move.

Lastly, the unveiling - Maybe I go in with my expectations set too high, but I always feel disappointed as the realization hits me: when it comes to my hair, this is probably as good as it gets… which is not much better than how I came in.

(My hair, no matter the investment I make, looks alarmingly similar to Justin Long’s character in The Break Up. Not pretty.)

But I always fiend a smile, because it’s not their fault my hair sucks, and coo over the color, to reassure them of this. The whole time feeling like I've been had - like I didn't get the "pretty" I was promised.

I pay them a ton of money for this process – much more, I always feel, than I should, given my hair. And as I’m bottling resentment and disappointment and impatience to escape this place as soon as possible, I smile and promise to come back in six weeks.

“Don’t wait so long this time!”
“I won’t!"
We both know I will.
Because why would I willingly put myself through this again any time soon?

And as bolting out the door, the thought always crosses my mind: it shouldn’t feel this way.