A few weeks ago I had my hair done by a scary, probably judgemental millennial.
I was scared of her within 3 minutes.
Her 10-years-younger-than-mine hands pulled my hair to and fro with great force.
She scowled into the mirror at every one of my people-pleaser smiles.
I squirmed a bit and apologised for being alive.
As often happens, I’d forgotten all of Neville’s training about how not to give too many fucks.
The cool-calm-and collected option would have been to gracefully accept that some people are just moody buggers and it ain’t nothing to do with me.
The awkward option would have been to try and befriend this surly whipper-snapper.
I went with the latter.
Playing it totally nonchalant, I asked her about the sticker on the mirror that said “Our excess chemicals build roads – ask your stylist!”
“Yea.” She said. “They make roads out of our excess chemicals.”
“But how does it work?” I wondered aloud.
She looked at me with dead eyes.
Shiiiiiit.
I’d pissed off the millennial, and she was about to style my hair.
I shrank further into my chair as she blow-waved my hair into a nightmare.
I’d asked for “beachy waves”. I came out looking like I’d had a perm.
When she asked if I liked it, I shrugged imperceptibly, paid, then ran outside and tied up my hair.
The moral of the story?
