MELLIPOP GOES TO THE HAIRDRESSERS

Ok, so why are hairdressers so agonisingly stereotypical? Is it the daily exposure to a terrifying panopoly of mind-warping toxic chemicals; the uneven power-relationship symbolised by their control of sharp implements, flesh-searing chemical cocktails and their knowingly smug ability to ruin your life with a deliberately disastrous hairstyle; or the constant stream of inane chatter from clients so desperate for company that they are willing to pay for the pleasure of inane conversation littered with endless sentences that begin “My boyfriend’s friend’s cousin said…”, “My boyfriend’s annoying habit number 354….” or “My boyfriend’s abnormally over-sized right testicle…” etc etc etc. And etc.

If you hadn’t already guessed by now, I got my hair cut today.

It was a right treat. I got the entire spectrum of hairdresser stereotypes working on my tresses today (minus the “gay” stylist – I live in the western suburbs of Sydney). The 20 year old fat hairdresser. The mid-20’s fat hairdresser. The post-30’s fat, single and desperate hairdresser. All female.

THE 20 YEAR OLD FAT HAIRDRESSER

The 20 year old fat hairdresser was full of stories about her impending 21st birthday party. Did I ask? That’s not the point. I now know that she is going to have her hair done (odd, that), start drinking at 4pm on the Saturday afternoon, possibly fall up and down stairs whilst drunk, and that she has to give a speech at the bequest of her undoubtedly proud parents. Not an Academy Award-style “Here is a speech I’ve prepared earlier” kind of speech. She was planning more of the tried-and-tested drunken tirade exercise in public speaking. She also told me that her “ex-boyfriend’s friend’s cousin” was going to bring along his Solomon Islands dance troupe for the evening’s entertainment, the downside being that she previously dated one of them.

20 year olds are fucking idiots.

And just when you think the tirade of exhausting detail must certainly end for lack of oxygen or further mundane anecdotes to report, I got a youthfully arrogant “Guess what happened to me yesterday? I got asked out by THREE SEPARATE GUYS!”. And because I was dying to know (or just dying of boredom by that point) I asked her if she had accepted any of these unexpected courtship offers. To the undoubted dismay of all three potential suitors, she declined because a) she wanted to be “free” on the night of her 21st birthday binge-fest and b) she had only just broken up with her boyfriend a week and half ago.

I was the unwelcome recipient of this tidal-glut of random infobabble whilst imprisoned at the sink as she washed out and slathered on various chemical compounds in turn. I felt like my head was caught in a fucking vice that kept squeezing tighter and tighter and fucking tighter with every vapid word that tumbled out of her hyperspeed Ritalin Generation motor-mouth.

Just to further clarify. 20 year olds are fucking idiots.

THE MID-20’S FAT HAIRDRESSER

The mid-20’s fat hairdresser was fantastic. She talked to me about what I wanted done with my hair. And then she shut the fuck up and fucking did it. Heaven.

THE POST-30’S FAT, SINGLE AND DESPERATE HAIRDRESSER

The post-30’s fat hairdresser was a walking, talking census form. Hence I was already apprised of her age, living arrangements and relationship status before my denim-clad ass had even hit the seat. 32 years old, single and lives with two male friends who are teaching her how to pick up men with tutorials on the arts of belching, sculling beer and watching motor-sports. With skills like that she’ll no doubt be destined to remain single for some time yet. I got to hear about previous dates in which she was uncomfortable with men touching her hair extensions – and can you believe that the men didn’t even realise she had them on?!? Maybe it’s just me but I thought that was the whole point of extensions. In between touch-ups I also got to hear some timeless wisdom as it relates to the ideological divide between the genders, including particularly articulate and insightful gems like “men are clueless”, "men like looking up women's skirts" and “men would rather look at a woman’s tits than her shoes”. Gobsmacking stuff.

I do like my hair though, despite having to endure the aforementioned morass of conversational banality. This kind of thing happens to me every time I go for a style, and the universal nature of their prattle is so systematic I’m sure that “Hairdressing Stereo-Archetypes 101” is a mandatory part of their apprenticeship training. No doubt the syllabus includes the following pre-requisite module on “Aids to Client Conversation: How to Force Them to Talk to You When They Really Want You To Shut the Fuck Up and Cut Their Hair”

And so we must endure the following:

Q: “So, what are you doing tonight?” see also “So, are you going out tonight?”

A: I will be cooking dinner, watching Big Brother and sobbing in dismay before the bathroom mirror, trying to ascertain whether a few artfully applied gobs of styling wax will render my new hairstyle fit for public display.

Q: “So, what are you doing this weekend?”

A: The answer to your previous question is crucial here. If it is determined that my new hairstyle is not fit for public display, I will be spending this - and the next 11 - weekends hidden under the doona at home. Weeping. And plotting revenge.

Q: “So, where do you work?”

A: I work in a butcher shop (it is optional to insert a few mumbled, lame, comments about also being a freelance writer: all depending on my willingness to risk volunteering any further cues to conversation and the supercilious extent of the question). Yes, that is why I’m in here on a Tuesday morning. I have a worse, and more lowly-paid job than you do. Happy now?

Q: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

A: What you are really asking me to answer is the hairdresser’s equivalent of the eternally fraught existential question of “beingness”. To wit, am I a “normal” human being or a lonely, perverted mutant doomed to an eternity surfing internet dating websites and attending speed dating events? Insert “yes”, “no” or “I’m a lesbian, actually” as appropriate.

Q: “Are you married?”

A: Unfortunately I seem to get the “married” version of the hair-existential question more than the “boyfriend” one these days. So I must look old. Sure, to a 20 year old hairdresser in the burgeoning throes of her “binge-drinking and promiscuous sex years”, I’m certain that I must look well and truly fossilised. No, I’m engaged, actually.

Q: “When are you getting married?”

A: How the fuck should I know? Regardless of whether I know the actual date or not, I’m sure as hell not telling you. That would be needlessly damning myself to an agonising series of inane questions about my looming nuptials for the next two and a half hours.

Q: “So, do you like it?”

A: The only answer you can possibly make to spare you any further pain, is “Yes, I love it”. Alternately, a snarky “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor” is your only other option.

Sigh…Only eight short weeks to my next appointment….