I have a confession to make to all of you: I'm middle-class, and this has a great effect on my personality and behaviour. I would say that the defining trait of my economically sandwiched set, if you will pardon a cooking metaphor, besides a strict, sometimes hypocritical morality and the fear of being mistaken for a lower-class person by an upper-class person, is cheapness.
This cheapness turned what should have been a pleasant experience for me into a terrifying ordeal just yesterday.
I usually get my haircut at one of the less expensive places, you know, the kind where you don't expect an ANTM level makeover but on the other hand you also don't expect to come out looking like a shark thought your head was a slice of bleeding tuna.
The lady who does my hair there has been doing an increasingly terrible job of trimming my tresses recently, which I blame on certain tensions between staff that I've noticed in the salon. Now, I agree that there are bound to be some arguments in a family business, and understand that my hairdresser is Chinese, a race in whose veins flows hot, thick blood that runs high when challenged, and I am prepared to excuse a little inattention. But the last time I went to her to get my hair cut, she didn't even glance occasionally at my head to see if she was doing a semi-decent job, mainly because she was screaming at someone in the other direction, and her scissors snipped perilously close to my ears one too many times. I left the salon shaken, although still in possession of both ears, vowing to cut my hair at a better place the next time.
Thus, I found myself at 'High Class Salon' yesterday, located in the prosperous district of Frazer Town. Entering the salon itself took courage because its name was written outside in low-wattage bulbs that were lit in the daytime and there was a lion-head knocker on the door, which opened its mouth and screamed to me "Stop! Reconsider!" However, I was determined and I went in, my heart pounding and my knees knocking together.
For the amusement of the customers, the owners of the salon had placed a tasteful receptionist close to the doorway, liberally smeared with lipstick, and I addressed my remarks to this formidable woman first.
"Yes?" she asked, as I approached her, eyeing me up and down as she might a poisonous slug.
"Er could I- is it possible- would you consider- can I get a haircut?" I said, in a rush, trembling at my own presumption.
"Do you have an appointment?" asked she, in a manner that seemed to suggest that she doubted it.
I said I had not and she smirked in a pitying sort of way. "We'll see if we can help you." she said, "Please take a seat."
I parked my unworthy carcass in one of their vintage leather chairs and waited anxiously, biting my nails and kicking an expensive looking marble bust to pass the time.
Finally, the receptionist beckoned with a clawed finger and said, sweetly, "The salon director, Daniel, can give you a haircut."
I turned in the direction she gestured and the salon director, Daniel, appeared. He was dressed entirely in black and his hairstyle was reminiscent of the Pharoahs of Egypt during the time of Joseph, although it differed from them in the respect that it was dyed a platinum blonde. Most of his face was obscured by a large pair of spectacles, and I doubted somehow that he wore these for any medical reason.
He led me to a chair and I sat, eyeing in dismay my surroundings. Each pretentious decoration my eye alighted on struck the utmost terror into my heart- the large mirrors suspended from the ceiling by chains, the golden bird cages from which no birds sang, and the army of assistants, all dressed with more style than I was.
"So what would you like me to do to your hair?" he asked, stroking my locks in what I considered was an overly familiar manner. His speech dispelled a little of my fear though- he didn't have a fake American accent and his voice rose and fell in the same gentle cadences as mine, the speech patterns of those who have been taught in one of Bangalore's many colonial institutions.
"Um," I gulped, crossing and uncrossing my eyes unattractively, "Anything you want."
He produced glossy pink magazines and asked me some questions, to all of which I nodded my head in a stricken manner without understanding what he was saying. Eventually, he seemed to decide that he was dealing with a half-wit and said gently, giving me a little push out of the chair.
"Go with Delma, sweetheart, she'll wash your hair, I think our conditioner will be good for it."
Delma offered me a drink which I frantically refused, imagining in horror the garguantan addition this would be to my bill. She then proceeded to wash my hair and had I not been so paralyzed with wallet-fear, I could have fallen asleep under the magical influence of her capable fingers. Then, she swathed my head in a snowy-white towel and led me back to Daniel.
Daniel produced a pair of ordinary scissors, which surprised me, and set to work hacking at my head with blade-twirling grace. His movements were beautiful to watch, his scissors flitted as lightly as a butterfly and my hair spun and fell around him like falling sakura petals.
I had asked for a short hairstyle because I figured if the cut was going to cost me an arm and a leg, I would like him to shear off as much hair as possible for value. He chatted fascinatingly as he worked, laughed with gratifying enthusiasm at all my jokes and basically proceeded to charm me into a well-groomed puddle. When he was done, one of the many assistants that infested the shop, Jennifer, leaped forward, armed with a blow-dryer that was slightly bigger than my torso and proceeded to mould my hair into a gleaming state of absolute perfection.
I had expected that I would have to sell one of my siblings to China as a slave to pay for the whole thing, but it was actually surprisingly reasonable for the service they provided. I left the salon with a head that felt lighter, and a wallet that was not substantially so, although my grandfather did cry later in the day when I told him how pricey it was (true story, bro). I'm definitely going to go again, although my Mum says that I'm going to have to maintain this haircut for the rest of my life, and I recommend it highly. The place was 'Rock paper scissors' near Frazer Town, and they do a good job with the hairs there. Check it out, y'all.
This cheapness turned what should have been a pleasant experience for me into a terrifying ordeal just yesterday.
I usually get my haircut at one of the less expensive places, you know, the kind where you don't expect an ANTM level makeover but on the other hand you also don't expect to come out looking like a shark thought your head was a slice of bleeding tuna.
The lady who does my hair there has been doing an increasingly terrible job of trimming my tresses recently, which I blame on certain tensions between staff that I've noticed in the salon. Now, I agree that there are bound to be some arguments in a family business, and understand that my hairdresser is Chinese, a race in whose veins flows hot, thick blood that runs high when challenged, and I am prepared to excuse a little inattention. But the last time I went to her to get my hair cut, she didn't even glance occasionally at my head to see if she was doing a semi-decent job, mainly because she was screaming at someone in the other direction, and her scissors snipped perilously close to my ears one too many times. I left the salon shaken, although still in possession of both ears, vowing to cut my hair at a better place the next time.
Thus, I found myself at 'High Class Salon' yesterday, located in the prosperous district of Frazer Town. Entering the salon itself took courage because its name was written outside in low-wattage bulbs that were lit in the daytime and there was a lion-head knocker on the door, which opened its mouth and screamed to me "Stop! Reconsider!" However, I was determined and I went in, my heart pounding and my knees knocking together.
For the amusement of the customers, the owners of the salon had placed a tasteful receptionist close to the doorway, liberally smeared with lipstick, and I addressed my remarks to this formidable woman first.
"Yes?" she asked, as I approached her, eyeing me up and down as she might a poisonous slug.
"Er could I- is it possible- would you consider- can I get a haircut?" I said, in a rush, trembling at my own presumption.
"Do you have an appointment?" asked she, in a manner that seemed to suggest that she doubted it.
I said I had not and she smirked in a pitying sort of way. "We'll see if we can help you." she said, "Please take a seat."
I parked my unworthy carcass in one of their vintage leather chairs and waited anxiously, biting my nails and kicking an expensive looking marble bust to pass the time.
Finally, the receptionist beckoned with a clawed finger and said, sweetly, "The salon director, Daniel, can give you a haircut."
I turned in the direction she gestured and the salon director, Daniel, appeared. He was dressed entirely in black and his hairstyle was reminiscent of the Pharoahs of Egypt during the time of Joseph, although it differed from them in the respect that it was dyed a platinum blonde. Most of his face was obscured by a large pair of spectacles, and I doubted somehow that he wore these for any medical reason.
He led me to a chair and I sat, eyeing in dismay my surroundings. Each pretentious decoration my eye alighted on struck the utmost terror into my heart- the large mirrors suspended from the ceiling by chains, the golden bird cages from which no birds sang, and the army of assistants, all dressed with more style than I was.
"So what would you like me to do to your hair?" he asked, stroking my locks in what I considered was an overly familiar manner. His speech dispelled a little of my fear though- he didn't have a fake American accent and his voice rose and fell in the same gentle cadences as mine, the speech patterns of those who have been taught in one of Bangalore's many colonial institutions.
"Um," I gulped, crossing and uncrossing my eyes unattractively, "Anything you want."
He produced glossy pink magazines and asked me some questions, to all of which I nodded my head in a stricken manner without understanding what he was saying. Eventually, he seemed to decide that he was dealing with a half-wit and said gently, giving me a little push out of the chair.
"Go with Delma, sweetheart, she'll wash your hair, I think our conditioner will be good for it."
Delma offered me a drink which I frantically refused, imagining in horror the garguantan addition this would be to my bill. She then proceeded to wash my hair and had I not been so paralyzed with wallet-fear, I could have fallen asleep under the magical influence of her capable fingers. Then, she swathed my head in a snowy-white towel and led me back to Daniel.
Daniel produced a pair of ordinary scissors, which surprised me, and set to work hacking at my head with blade-twirling grace. His movements were beautiful to watch, his scissors flitted as lightly as a butterfly and my hair spun and fell around him like falling sakura petals.
I had asked for a short hairstyle because I figured if the cut was going to cost me an arm and a leg, I would like him to shear off as much hair as possible for value. He chatted fascinatingly as he worked, laughed with gratifying enthusiasm at all my jokes and basically proceeded to charm me into a well-groomed puddle. When he was done, one of the many assistants that infested the shop, Jennifer, leaped forward, armed with a blow-dryer that was slightly bigger than my torso and proceeded to mould my hair into a gleaming state of absolute perfection.
I had expected that I would have to sell one of my siblings to China as a slave to pay for the whole thing, but it was actually surprisingly reasonable for the service they provided. I left the salon with a head that felt lighter, and a wallet that was not substantially so, although my grandfather did cry later in the day when I told him how pricey it was (true story, bro). I'm definitely going to go again, although my Mum says that I'm going to have to maintain this haircut for the rest of my life, and I recommend it highly. The place was 'Rock paper scissors' near Frazer Town, and they do a good job with the hairs there. Check it out, y'all.
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