Hairy tales

My wandering about town in search of a decent hair dresser has led me to take this extreme step of blogging my hair worries. Situation is, I walked into this swanky salon in uptown Mumbai, where snooty receptionists with constipated smiles direct you to your hair stylist (that’s the name for people who wash your hair, cut it and then for some inexplicable reason blow-dry it. Rendering the first activity useless. This entire fuss also causes some very thrilled greens to leave the comfort of your pocket)

So, virgin in the land of hair fashionistas,, I expect a charming, cute woman to walk upto me with a smile. Instead, turns up miss uber cool- fresh off the catwalk look, stilettos et al..Am I expected to pay this woman who looks like she could buy me off? As we walk towards what seemed like the gallows (maybe that’s where they take the people who are a walking fashion faux pas). I almost faint with relief as we approach a rather fatherly salon chair. As my butt causes the cushion to heave, I can feel her eyes tut tut my hairstyle. She then washes my hair, and finally gets the elusive scissor near my split-ended locks. Now, for those who are befuddled, it is and may I repeat it is imperative that they play with your hair a couple of times. Do not take this personally. As the minute hand lazes down to 20 minutes, shes blow-drying my hair, Some serious heat enters my skull. And I can bet some of my ear wax almost melted. Armed with mousse, she takes to my hair with vengeance and a little more blow-drying, I am coiffured. Ta da and my new look is revealed to me. I like it. I like the way the hair falls on my face, on my face, on my face (aarrgghh annoying) but I smile and am ready to hit the road. After the aforementioned green event, I make my way to the nearest bus. Yeah so it seems like a luxury, but I need to get home. With regular encouragement from the bus conductor, cheap men and sewage breeze, I tie my hair up. It looks better this way.