Dear Salon Chair, You're NOT My BFF In My Head (you always get me to confess my sins :/ )

Salon Chair Confession

Tell me if this sounds familiar. You're 2 - 3 weeks past due on your hair maintenance. 

This can be either roots, trim, or whatever. Or, maybe it's your nails.  You get the point. Anyway, you show up to the salon and set in that confessional they so gleefully call a salon chair.  The lights are bright and suddenly you're sweating.  You're cold and clammy. You feel like you're in the starring role of "The First 48" - but on the wrong side of that 2-way mirror.  Your skin is pale, eyes look darker than usual, and your hair - oh, God your hair! WTF! It didn't look that bad, did it?  Have I always had blonde hair and jet black (almost blue) roots.  No. No! This can't be. You're better than this.

What do you want to know?!

Fine! Okay! Fine!  I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything. I've only eaten M&M's for all three meals today - maybe yesterday was Moonpies. I'm in yoga pants with no plans to workout, and I told myself I had no clean bras just so I wouldn't have to wear one under my fav old baggy t-shirt (which, btw, I can't recall the last time it was washed).  Just make the pain STOP! What do you want from me!?!?!?! Breathe. Xanax, Xanax, Xanax ...

What you have just witnessed is the utter mental collapse I put myself through on every other trip to the salon to have my cut and/or color done. For reasons I can't explain, (Lie. I'm trying to make myself feel better) as soon as I set down in the salon chair I realize how bad I have let my hair go.  So, my fight or flight reflex kicks in.  Since there is no way in hell I'm going to flee (can't lose the appointment), I fight. But my fight instinct needs a little work. For me, "fight" means truth word-vomit. And a lot of it. 

Fine, I'll tell you everything...

If I confess my beauty routine maintenance sins (and apparently all others I committed that day) they will be figuratively and literally washed away in the shampoo bowl. If I can somehow convey to the stylist that, "yes, I know my hair looks bad, but I've been traveling (lie), I've been working 100 hrs a week (lie, but feels true), or that I've been busy with kids (lie, no kids), I will somehow undo the fact that pure unadulterated laziness took over and honestly, I just didn't feel like making an appointment until it was too late. And there you have it. The truth.  The salon chair always wins. Like hot oil or the rack.  It just can't be lied to.  It just can't. 

Salon chair sin confessional, I wish I could lie to you. But, I can't. You are not my BFF in my head.


Eve Slaughter