// February 15th, 2009 // 1 Comment » // humour, opinion
It’s time to get superficial. And brutal. The best of both worlds. What I am talking about is my hair, and the fact that I just can’t win in regards to a certain hair salon in Osbourne Park. I had been going there since 2002 and even though it cost an arm, a leg, my ass and $200, I kept going back. You could even call it masochistic. I had a sick addiction to the pain of being charged more than $200 every time I was getting my hair done. And do you know what is worse? I accepted it! I kept justifying it and saying things like “they always do a great job”.
What. the. fuck. ever.
Last time I went, it was a nightmare. I was there for 5 hours. I’m not joking. I had half a head of foils which takes an hour for me as I have a lot of hair, and a cut which takes all of 10 minutes. Then of course there is all the shampooing and blow-waving. Oh! That’s the other thing – I even opted out of the blow wave a little while back because I had found out it was $65! For a blow-wave! Ridiculous.
Ok, so back to my brutal, brutal story.
The last time I was at this particular HAIR salon in Osborne Park, I felt like I was being weaved through a LOOM. You could even say that I was fucked around. Whatever, how else am I to cleverly tell you of the place I had my hair done? I sat in the chair, waited 30 minutes for my hairdresser to approach me, then i sat in another chair, waited for 20 minutes for someone to get me prepped. Waited 10 minutes for my hairdresser to return to tell me that SOMEONE ELSE was doing my hair. Might I just add that yes, I was timing these little blocks of time that I was sitting around waiting. Since waiting a really long time at reception, I thought – what the fuck – and just started timing.
At first it was a joke, and then when I was left at the hair dryer sitting there with the damn thing off and waiting for someone to come and assist me for 20 minutes, I thought enough is enough. I actually began to get furious. I thought that this has to be it – no more waiting. But I was so wrong. My hairdresser started cutting, then excused herself for 35 minutes as she tended to a lady at the front counter. I was flipping out. If it were possible, I would have had steam coming from my ears. Of course, I forgot to invoke the “I have an appointment at xx:xx” so they would hurry up and I wouldn’t have to get out 5 hours after I went in. My boyfriend even called me to see if I was ok.
So I thought, fuck this. Fuck you and your outlandish prices, your shitty service or lack of service at all, your ego to think you are even worth that much, leaving me alone for over an hour for no good reason – it wasn’t even busy! I was going to go somewhere else, and on Saturday morning, I did just that.
I went to this fabulous little hair salon on Grantham Street in Wembley. It is owned by a mutual friend and so I thought I would go anyway since my bee eff eff said it was super cheap and awesome as evidenced by her current hair. I slid open the door to the salon, walked 10 cm and I was at the reception. I was obviously used to the poor excuse for a salon in Osborne Park that had there grand entrance with their endless, undeserved trophies and a brick wall that looked like it should have been a water feature but probably got clogged with hair and stopped working. I was promptly shown my seat where I was greated with mens magazines which I read anyway.
With magazines, men know where it’s at. It’s all about tits and cars – there is no covering up. It’s what they like. With women’s magazines, it’s always a constant regurgitation of “real life articles” and “you can be better!” – you know, stories that try and disguise the fact that we just like shopping and sex.
My hairdresser came promptly, listened to what I wanted, showed me colour charts to help match my natural colour and just started cutting. Quick and to the point. I was taken aback that there was no spraying – normally at that shitty little box of a salon in ozzie park I had my hair streaked first then cut – but I didn’t care – down to business. My hair was drowning the floor and I loved it. I had been pissed the last couple of times I had my hair cut it looked no different and felt no different and I would somehow be $200 poorer. Then followed the streaks. I sat and read magazines from a week to 6 months ago which I found slightly refreshing. There were no Vogue’s, no Cosmopolitans. Just the trashy gossip mags which are always funny and no matter how old they are, it was like a soap opera – still entertaining and full of crappy drama.
After the streaks, it was time for the shampooing. My hairdresser led me to the chair which was a metre away, out in the open and the chairs looked like they were from the 70s. I was almost taken aback but at the same time, I loved it. There was no pretensious attitude about it. It was just a hair salon, the way it should be. I had been used to the old salon, with the private back room with all the shampoo girls, reclining your chair with a peddle and turning on the chair massager.
And then there was the blow drying – the girl doing it pulled my hair quite a bit. It was slightly uncomfortable and at some times, kind of painful. But whatever, I didn’t care. And I loved that fact that I didn’t have to talk to 19 year old girls who had been clubbing since they were 15 or some shit.This place catered for all kinds – lovely old ladies were in there chatting away and being randy as it was Valentine’s day. It was quite funny and yet also comforting. I was in a no-bullshit zone – just the way I am.
Ok so the HAIR salon that weaved me through a LOOM is obviously a lot more trendier than this wonderful little salon on Grantham Street, but who cares? And when my total came to $90 I was booking my next appointment right away and I was out of there 2 hours later. Who the fuck wants to be sitting there for 5 hours, being shunted and having to listen to girls who rant about which West Coast Eagles player they know/slept with/dated/slapped whatever?
Not me.
I finally got the chance to watch 
