Sunday, September 30, 2007

Coming Up Short on Freaky Friday

On Friday, I found myself with some free time so I decided to go to the salon to see if I could get my hair cut and colored. Of course, I had not made an appointment, so I was at the mercy of the stylist and the colorist to "squeeze" me in. Since old habits are hard to break, I've always tipped them both, even though it is not customary to do so over here. It certainly paid off, as I was able to get a hair cut at 11:15 and then a color appointment at 3:15. [See, this whole customer service thing can take off in Brussels -- we just need to encourage a tipping society!]

A little after 11, I walked back into to the salon to find an older lady in the middle of a complete nervous breakdown. I'm talking tears, shaking, near hyperventilation, should we call a doctor breakdown. From what I could decipher (damn that lack of French!), she was upset about a man, a child, or, perhaps a man acting like a child. It wasn't clear -- to me. Everyone else in the salon was on top of it. They kept talking to her in these really nice voices and offering her comforting looks. I, on the other hand, had more pressing things on my mind, such as the fact that she was having this breakdown in the very chair that I was scheduled to occupy in a few short minutes. Call me superstitious, but I really don't think it is a good idea to have the appointment following the crazy person. My stylist is amazing, but I could tell by the way she was holding her scissors that she had completely had it with the lady in the chair. Would a "squeeze in" after a "breakdown" be too much for the stylist to handle? How bad was my hair gonna pay for this psychotic episode?

After about half a magnum of champagne, the lady calmed down enough to move to another chair. I then sat down in the hot seat, wondering if it would be too rude to suggest that my stylist might want to take a nip or two from that champagne bottle as well. You know, a little something to calm the scissors.

Just as I was explaining to my stylist that I only wanted a trim, the lady started with her second psychotic breakdown. All eyes, ears and champagne glasses were turned towards her, except mine. Instead, I did the only thing I knew to make the woman feel more comfortable, I read (okay, looked at the pictures) in the French Vogue and acted as if everything was completely normal. My charade of denial was working just fine until I glanced up and realized that over four inches of my hair was missing! Somehow "trim" turned into "bob". So, thanks to the crazy lady and the man/child/manchild, I am now sporting a much shorter do. (And, yes, it is still beige!)


Blogger Amy&Andy said...

Man, Cindy, I'm due for a cut and your story is scary!

12:13 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hey Ms. Lane,

Where are the pictures!!!

Ms. Potts

3:38 PM  
Anonymous V-Grrrl said...


I once had the misfortune of being the last appointment with my stylist before she was going to have surgery. She was going straight from the salon to the hospital and was a nervous wreck. Trying to keep her occupied, I asked who her surgeon was. She told me, and no lie, it was a guy I knew from middle school on, one of my best pals. I reassured her that he'd always been a genius, was responsible even when he was a teenager and that he and I had been voted Most Likely to Succeed. She was ecstatic to get the inside scoop on her doctor, but while we were chatting, she kept cutting and cutting and cutting my hair. GAH! I went from a bob to a short do. I didn't get my hair cut again for nine months.

8:16 PM  

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