At the Hairdresser's
There are two essential qualities that a hairdresser needs.
Firstly, the ability to cut hair: and, secondary to that, it helps if he or she has an interest in shampoos and gels and mousses and all those other things that are important for the mystique of hair care.
Secondly, a hairdresser needs people skills. The ability to remember every client's name: the ability to make the salon a warm welcoming place where the staff feel valued and the clients feel at home.
My hairdresser has the first of these.
She doesn't have the second. At all. But she does try.
"Ah, Brenda, come in. Emma! Come and take Brenda's coat!" says Angela, for so I shall call her, though Angela's not her name.
My name is not, and never has been, Brenda, either. And there's a limit to the number of times that I'm prepared to tell her this, and I passed that limit long ago. But hey, sometimes she calls me Anne, instead.
So Emma, the latest in a very long line of juniors, comes and tries to take my jumper but there's no way I'm letting her have it as the place is freezing.
"Would you like a coffee, Brenda?" asks Emma.
"NO!" yells Angela, the hairdresser. "Don't offer the client a coffee YET! She's EARLY! Get her to SIT DOWN and then FINISH THE JOB YOU WERE DOING!"
Emma trots meekly away.
"Would you like a coffee, Brenda?" asks Angela.
"No, thank you," I say.
"Let me take your jumper."
"No, thank you."
She eyes it hopefully.
"You won't feel the benefit when you get out if you don't give it to me," she says.
"I'll keep it on, thank you."
I get my book out.
"Wouldn't you prefer a magazine?"
"No, thank you."
"A magazine would be more relaxing. You don't want to be reading a book in the hairdresser's. This is your time for pampering. You don't want to spend it reading a book."
"I'm happy with my book, thank you."
Emma comes back.
"Would you like a coffee?"
"No, thank you."
Emma washes my hair. She asks me if I've booked my holidays yet: she tells me about her boyfriend: she tells me about what she did on New Year's Eve. Finally she stops speaking for a couple of minutes whilst she fetches a towel.
Angela notices.
"EMMA!" she yells. "CONVERSATION! You've got to TALK TO THE CLIENT! It's part of the JOB!"
I move back to my original seat. Angela has closed my book and put it back in my bag.
The next client comes in. She has a rather croaky voice.
"What's wrong with your voice?" asks Angela.
"I don't know," says the client, "I'm seeing the doctor tomorrow. Perhaps he'll be able to tell me then."
"You want to see the doctor about that," says Angela, waving the scissors about. "One of my other clients had a croaky voice just like yours. She's dead now. Throat cancer."
It's like being in the hairdressing equivalent of an episode of Fawlty Towers. Fortunately, Angela cut my hair very short, at my request, so I won't have to go back there for a while.
Next time, there'll be a different junior. There always is.
Firstly, the ability to cut hair: and, secondary to that, it helps if he or she has an interest in shampoos and gels and mousses and all those other things that are important for the mystique of hair care.
Secondly, a hairdresser needs people skills. The ability to remember every client's name: the ability to make the salon a warm welcoming place where the staff feel valued and the clients feel at home.
My hairdresser has the first of these.
She doesn't have the second. At all. But she does try.
"Ah, Brenda, come in. Emma! Come and take Brenda's coat!" says Angela, for so I shall call her, though Angela's not her name.
My name is not, and never has been, Brenda, either. And there's a limit to the number of times that I'm prepared to tell her this, and I passed that limit long ago. But hey, sometimes she calls me Anne, instead.
So Emma, the latest in a very long line of juniors, comes and tries to take my jumper but there's no way I'm letting her have it as the place is freezing.
"Would you like a coffee, Brenda?" asks Emma.
"NO!" yells Angela, the hairdresser. "Don't offer the client a coffee YET! She's EARLY! Get her to SIT DOWN and then FINISH THE JOB YOU WERE DOING!"
Emma trots meekly away.
"Would you like a coffee, Brenda?" asks Angela.
"No, thank you," I say.
"Let me take your jumper."
"No, thank you."
She eyes it hopefully.
"You won't feel the benefit when you get out if you don't give it to me," she says.
"I'll keep it on, thank you."
I get my book out.
"Wouldn't you prefer a magazine?"
"No, thank you."
"A magazine would be more relaxing. You don't want to be reading a book in the hairdresser's. This is your time for pampering. You don't want to spend it reading a book."
"I'm happy with my book, thank you."
Emma comes back.
"Would you like a coffee?"
"No, thank you."
Emma washes my hair. She asks me if I've booked my holidays yet: she tells me about her boyfriend: she tells me about what she did on New Year's Eve. Finally she stops speaking for a couple of minutes whilst she fetches a towel.
Angela notices.
"EMMA!" she yells. "CONVERSATION! You've got to TALK TO THE CLIENT! It's part of the JOB!"
I move back to my original seat. Angela has closed my book and put it back in my bag.
The next client comes in. She has a rather croaky voice.
"What's wrong with your voice?" asks Angela.
"I don't know," says the client, "I'm seeing the doctor tomorrow. Perhaps he'll be able to tell me then."
"You want to see the doctor about that," says Angela, waving the scissors about. "One of my other clients had a croaky voice just like yours. She's dead now. Throat cancer."
It's like being in the hairdressing equivalent of an episode of Fawlty Towers. Fortunately, Angela cut my hair very short, at my request, so I won't have to go back there for a while.
Next time, there'll be a different junior. There always is.
posted by Daphne at 8:29 pm
8 Comments:
I used to go to a rather pricey salon in Headingley...they only made me cry once! :-)
I adore my hairdresser, saw him this morning actually. He ticks all the boxes and is cute to boot (though blatently uninterested in the ladies...). It's a bit of a drive, but if you're ever down this way I'll introduce you - he's a genius.
Zomg, that's like something from a Little Britain sketch!! I'm tempted to say "it's time to change your hairdresser" but am assuming she probably does a good job when all is said and done!?
My hairdresser is really cute for his age, knows when to talk and when to keep quiet, understands me completely and is blessed with a huge.....amount of skill with his electric trimmer.
Yes, I cut my own hair.
I am in desperate need of a haircut. Alas, as Bill Bryson says, 'I'm a Stranger Here Myself'. I don't know where to go. My last choice left me looking more male than female and that's not quite what I had in mind. The one before that spent the entire time that should have been "ME" time, talking about her Grandfather's dog being violated. I'm thinking she missed the week on salon etiquette during her schooling. I plan to begin a quest next week in search of someone that can cut my hair in a feminine style, leaving bestiality out of the mix. Wish me luck.
Amy - your hairdresser sounds great, but is possibly a bit far away from Leeds, sadly!
Siegfried - yes, it would be the hairdresser equivalent of "Computer says no!" She DOES do a good job - - and she's just up the road - - but really - -
Ian - you have found the perfect hairdresser. And made me laugh.
Debby - great to hear from you. Perhaps your hairdresser-before-last was one of Angela's escaped juniors, trained in her methods.
psssst... are we still allowed to comment?
because if... I would like to tell you how much I enjoyed reading this. It really made me laugh. I'm glad I do not have to deal with hairdressers . :)
John - oh yes, keep on commenting, please. Though if she ever finds my blog she might firebomb my house.
Katrin - I'm glad you enjoyed it. Your hair looks great and you are very lucky!
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