Salon chair imagination

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[Photo taken from Google]

I walk into the salon and I’m already excited. Hair curled up in a very messy half bun with locks still dripping wet, the salon smells like hairspray and séchoir-burnt pelicules.  I sit comfortably in the leather chair and I can only see half my face when facing the mirror, because yes, the CHAIR is the problem. In no way does my height have to do with anything. So here I am staring at my forehead and the upper-half of my hair, patiently waiting for the chosen hairdresser to make me prettier than 30 minutes ago.

The wait felt infinite on that particular day so my eyes wandered off to the neighboring women in their mid-hairdressing-mission. One woman had her heated head in between the 4 hands of two hairdressers on her right and left side, so twenty fingers holding locks of hair, clips, those fat round-looking brown brushes with hair of old heads still clearly somewhere between the sticks, and the infamous curling iron in one of their sweaty hands. In this case the woman’s hawk-like staring at the technicality of her transformation is probably making the hairdressers jumpy and a little frightened.

Another woman, probably in her 50s took off half her hair when she came in, called the lead hairdresser to the rescue and started comparing locks of extensions to her original hair color, explaining how she wanted to stick the hair right above her ear and all the way round her skull instead of individual extension fillings. She had a pretty high pitched voice so the entire salon knew exactly where her bald spots were located.

The chosen hairdresser saves me from drowning in all that added information as he grabs my hair and asks me what I want to do with it.

“Big curled ends please” I exclaim.

“Sure.” He says

and he starts brushing my hair. I don’t know how to explain it, but when a cute boy brushes your hair it’s like everything is right in the world. His big hands are tied up between my long locks and I couldn’t be happier.

“Your hair is so soft.”

“Thank you” I say.

*I know* says my head

*I love you* weeps my heart.

I’m kidding it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I liked that little moment we had, where he acknowledged how soft my hair feels between his fingers and how we’re probably going to get married right then and there on that chair.

So back to him brushing my hair. It’s the most perfect moment, I stare at him focusing on my hair and think “I hope he smells my coconut and butter shampoo and falls in love with me.”

and his big arms turn me around the chair and softly dry my hair and as the curling iron heat up.

He takes it, grabs a small part of my hair and wraps it around the iron, carefully making sure I don’t get burned.

*How sweet of him*

Is there anything better than a man devoting hours making sure your hair looks good?

Right in that salon chair I created a prefect world where he gets to wash and shampoo my hair and dry it then does whatever he wants with it, I smile discretely as I am sure of my insanity at this moment.

“You’re done.”

*Already?* I think

“Thank you, it looks really good”. I say

I smile, pay and leave. *I’m sure he’ll remember me forever.*

Until his next client comes in.

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