Handled by an amateur salonist

It was a pity I couldn’t go back to my friend’s salon since, although I had deliberately sneaked my way past it, I was sure she had seen me. We are friends yes but when it comes to salon service, I’m ashamed to say sod loyalty but I’d rather take my money to her competitor in the neighbouring salon. She is more professional-I love professional-which for a salonist means doing her work to the best with minimum guidance from the client, supplemented by knowing advice and only as much talk as necessary.

I also love that this woman, when she washes my hair scrubs my scalp until I feel light headed from sheer cleanliness, without as much as a drop of water in my face or soap blocking my ears.

The problem with being so good at your job is that none of your clients will settle for less than your personal touch. As expected, even this time she was too busy to attend to me since I hadn’t booked, unless I could wait for not less than four hours. There was however an intern that could help, if I didn’t mind.

That was a relief; the next day would be Monday and the only other free time I’d have would be the next weekend. One look at the intern when she emerged however and I knew I wasn’t so lucky after all. But what other choice did I have? This and my friend’s were the only nearby salons.

I swallowed hard and gave in to this timid amateur whose every body language screamed “incompetent.” As I settled at the sink to have my hair washed, the start of what would be the most irritating salon visit for one only desiring a wash and dry, started with the girl forgetting I needed a towel over my shoulders until she had soaked my whole front in water.

I was also the one who reminded her that she needed to comb my hair first or it would get terribly entangled. She irritatingly continued to spill water allover my face and stick a huge coarse finger into my ears, oblivious to my disgusted cringes every time she did, until from between my teeth, I told her to stop it.

When reminded by her boss to ensure she scrubbed my scalp clean, the girl scratched specific spots of my head until I’d beg her to stop or I’d bleed, each time evoking timid giggles from her that irritated me farther. Meanwhile, I felt soapy water run down my back, and couldn’t wait to get away from under her smelly armpits.

Needless to say, I opted for the drier rather than the initially preferred blow dryer, then combed my hair myself afterwards. Oh, and my scalp was itching in two days; from dirt. And to think I’d endured all that torture to only be back at the salon in two days