On a hair-day like this…
So to save some time today I decided I would bring my laptop and get some writing done while wasting my precious time at the hairdresser. I had a nice little topic picked out I was going to write about, all positive, nice and cupcake. But that’s impossible now. The anxiety attack that just washed over me prohibits all creative thinking. Getting my hair dressed is like poring salt on an open wound.
Looking in retrospect, I must be in the worlds top 10 for the amount of tears shed at a hair saloon. I dreaded the hairdresser like most people dread the dentist. Thinking about it now, its my mothers fault. I do have a fantastic mother whom I love limitlessly, but this I must blame her for. When being a kid, a girl to be exact, my mother persisted on cutting my sister’s and mine hair short. Very short. All the time. She claimed it would intensify the quality of our hair and make it thicker. And sure, I must admit, I do have thick nice hair, but I’m not sure if it was because my hair got molested every month or just good genes.
However, the consequences from these actions where to say the least, not worth it. Growing up, still a girl, being mistaken for a boy for 7 years does not count as one of my favorite childhood memories. “Zoran”? No it’s not Zoran, you moron, it’s Zoran-A. Ok, my tomboy manners didn’t help my girl image, but I still see the haircut as the main bad guy in the identity crises one might experience in these situations.
When finally reaching an age where a resistance movement could be formed against the scissor, I somehow managed to achieve chin length. Still not girly girly, but at least you would distinguish a girl from five meters of distance.
But as they say, small children, small problems. The real tough phase was reaching those awkward hair color years. Dear lord, did I cry myself to sleep after countless attempts to some kind of unnatural pretty color. But not color on can from the supermarket. No, coloring at a professional hair saloon, and still awful! Going to the hairdresser was a true nightmare. Filled with hope and excitement before, dreams shredded after.
Here is the irony, living in a Scandinavian country with thick hair you can forget about a nice hair color, people there have the opposite hair of mine, so not many hairdressers are used to work on hair texture like that. There went those Vogue cover dreams, all flushed down the thick hair texture toilet. Until. Until I once at a vacation in the country I’m currently inhabiting found my hair god (in whose chair I’m sitting right now). He made me go blond. He said he wouldn’t do anything else than make me blond. I was in shock. I was a brunette in shock. And for the first time I left a hair salon happy. And for the first time I left a hair salon blond. A happy blond who will always wake up anxious on days like this, never taking hair dressers for granted.
Have a nice hair-day!
By Zorana Micic