I’m not the kind of women who has beauty treatments and I rarely visit the hairdresser; preferring to cut my own hair with the kitchen scissors. But today, I decided to treat myself and booked in for highlights and a restyle at the local hair salon.
I was disappointed with my hairdresser because I wanted the mustachioed and creative-looking camp man who was working on the women sat next to me. Mine couldn’t have been straighter if he tried and I’m sure it makes no difference whether your male hairdresser is straight or not, but if I had to choose, I’d want a camp gay one. Mine was a grumpy, short and squat man who kept adjusting my head position by pressing very firmly on the top of my scalp with his thumb. It hurt but I didn’t say anything, hoping he was some kind of creative genius who had a penchant for being firm with young ladies.
He tried to comb my recently washed hair with the tiniest little fine-toothed comb and wasn’t having a great deal of luck. I suggested he used an afro comb as I have the long thick curly hair. He followed my suggestion and said he was also going to use some detangler and leave-in conditioner to ease the knots out. I noticed half way through that he wasn’t actually using the correct product; it was some kind of greasy smoothing lotion that stank, but I didn’t dare say anything in fear he might also be prone to pissy-ness if not obeyed.
And it’s not the first time a man has struggled to comb my hair.
Several years ago I had a fuck buddy of sorts; another short squat man who when naked, looked like a barrel. He also had a matching chode but I didn’t mind. His hair was Nicky Clarke-esque and I absolutely adored him. We had a weekly arrangement and would spend at least two hours fucking like rabbits. He was really heavy and every time he fucked me, my whole body would shift up and down the bed, causing my long hair to tangle. After each shag, he would then spend an hour or two trying to comb the knots out of my hair which was almost dreadlocked at this point. Once, after an hour of detangling, we ended up snipping the knots out and decided it would be easier for me to go on top.
Anyway, the hairdresser today was so short - and my hair so long I could sit on it - that I had to stand for him to cut it.
At one point he asked, “do you get headaches?” When I replied with a yes, he claimed, “it’s because you have a lot of hair, it’s pulling on your scalp and causing headaches”. He then pulled very firmly on my hair to demonstrate. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, “I thought it was because I do a lot of computer work and don’t wear glasses when I should. Is there any proof to this theory?”
He evaded answering my question by asking me if my fingernails were weak and broke easily. “No”, I replied, and didn’t bother to ask why he’d asked me such a stupid question.
After a cut and a ‘scrunch dry’, my hair looks, smells and feels great.
On leaving, I glanced at the floor and found it odd that only 3 inches of hair, weighing perhaps 0.05 grams could potentially cause me headaches.