To speak or not to speak?

I went for a trim yesterday. According to mom, I dint need one… yet.. But I’m the slightly- over-particular type. “See ma, if you look carefully, you will notice that the hair is getting   out of shape. You are not paying attention to what I am saying that’s why you can’t see that I need to get a trim.”  Being pushed to admit that I really did need a trim, mom mumbles a “Ya, you are right” and I set off to the salon. 

I have a tendency of either digging my own grave or getting myself into the classic foot-in-mouth moments. In this case I did both.  Quite a feat, you must be thinking.  The receptionist at the counter told me I had to wait as none of the guys who cuts hair was free. Just as I made myself comfortable on the brown coloured, overstuffed leather sofa (What idiot would keep leather furniture in a city like Mumbai? It rains for 4 months and the average humidity is something like 80%!! Are you stupid or what?!), a man walked into the reception and announced he was free to take on any new customers. The receptionist asked me if I had issues about getting my hair cut by this guy. I had never seen his guy; how could I decide if I wanted to risk my precious hair at him (un)professional hands? So I did what I do best- ask pointed questions. “Do you know how to cut hair? If you do, then you can cut mine, else I will wait for the other hair dresser to get free.”  One look at the man’s face and I knew I had made a huge error. There are levels in foot-in-mouth moments and this one rated an 11 on 10. The man gave me a look that was a mixture of shock, disgust and hurt. Unintentionally, I had wounded his fragile male ego. That was a somewhat frightening. After all there was a distinct possibility that a few minutes from now, I would be at his mercy and he would have a sharp pair of scissors in his hand. Not the best situation to be in.  Wordlessly he gestured me inside.  While passing another hairdresser on his way, he quickly relayed what I had said to him outside. The other chappie laughed in a weird way. Not the one to keep quiet, I promptly told the Smartpants that I didn’t know him and didn’t even know what he did for a living and so it was quite alright to ask him if he knew how to cut hair.  Choosing not to respond to me, he asked to me sit in the ridiculously high chair(Why are all the chairs tht high??I dint know that the average Indian woman’s height was 5’7) and began working on my hair. 

 I was already worried about how Smartpants would take his revenge. So to play it safe I gave him clear instructions about not changing anything. Just give me a trim and I will be gone in a jiffy.  At some point during the hair cutting process I noticed he was cutting the hair in front a little too short. Objecting, I told him “What are you doing? Don’t change any lengths please”. He smirked “Madam, don’t you think you need a change?It will look good” Before I could yell “NO!” the damage was done. Unable to resist myself I tell him “You know, I am a social worker. I don’t think being soooo stylish would suit my profession” He counters with “Madam, you don’t know social workers are very hep these days.” Realising that there was nothing I could do, I sat back and let him finish his job.  

The cutting over, he went on to blow drying. This is something I don’t like and as a rule tell the person to skip this step all together. I tried telling Smartpants too that I didn’t enjoy someone blowing hot air over my hair and neck, but being adamant and on the revenge trail, he continued as if I hadn’t spoken at all. While he is wasting my time blow drying, I am thinking to myself “I don’t like the way he is doing this. Why is he trying to do these funny curls? Why would anyone try to set my hair into curls?? A) I have straight hair B) I have a round face. Why would you do this to me?!!” While my mid is on a roll, Smartpants announces “Ok, it’s done.” Errr, ok, if you say so, I think. “Now I am all set for a film shoot.” I tell him. Some people never learn.  The man is utterly shocked at my statement. (Honestly what he did dint look bad but it was a little too stylish and kinda bollywood inspired. Just not me) 

I pay for the services, walk out of the salon, stand under the shadow of a large tree (a rarity in my city) and wildly comb my hair to get rid of the artificial curves and curls. Task accomplished, I clam the hair in a clip- to ensure not a single fake curl survives. That done, my confidence is revived and I walk back home. The only real damage that came from the encounter with Smartpants was that he did cut the hair a little shorter than the original plan. This is what you get when you open you mouth at the wrong time and consequently dig your own grave. 

 I found someone who has similar stories of torture to tell. Read up Con -Hair if you feel like it.

2 thoughts on “To speak or not to speak?

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