And it was fun - and scary.
It was one of those very fancy salons; you know, the kind where you are greeted by one person, a second one shows you to your chair, washes your hair and sensually massages your head and, finally, a third one offers you drinks ("Coffee? tea? prosecco?" Yes, that's right: prosecco), cuts your hair and styles it. You didn't know that kind of places exist? Me neither. Until yesterday.
So I wanted a super duper cool haircut, done by professionals who understand that curly hair is a pretty crazy thing to have, live with and style. I wanted to get something for which you pay more money, but then it looks so fabulous every day that you are confident enough to get out of your bed and immediately go out the door - metaphorically speaking; or not. I also wanted to get a haircut which stops me from pulling my hair in front of friends and saying: "See how awful it is? See??"
So I went to Fancy Expensive Haircuts GmbH, in Vienna's richest, most bourgeois district, where specialists are supposed to take care of your hair, no matter how crazy it is - or how crazy you are, for that matter. I was greeted by a cool young assistant, probably around 16 (yes, that is the age when people can decide to become hairstylists in Austria), with a huge smile - like, extending from one ear to the other huge. She took my coat (said thank you), showed me to the chair (I sat down, she said thank you), brought me a hot lemonade (thanked me for taking it from her hand), asked if I am sitting comfortably ("Yes, great." -"Thank you!" - "You're welcome?" That was awkward). While she was away, the receptionist came and asked me to fill in a questionnaire "so that we can adapt our services to your specific needs and your hairstylist knows what you would like to have". Oh okay - but she could have come in person and ask (does she even exist? I've met two people in this place already and neither of them was her). While I was filling in what turned out to be a very complex and personal questionnaire (What do you dislike more about your hair? a. It's dry; b. Your haircut; c, d, e, f. You have no self esteem and hate your hair regardless of what it looks like), the blond adolescent came to ask me if I would like a "Relax-aroma-mumbled-words": it was supposed to be a head massage with some smelly stuff. I told her smilingly I am not into that kind of stuff, she thanked me and left disappointed - yet her smile, the same one, not one muscle more or less involved in it, was still stitched to her face; I thought she would go yay, less slave work for her, but I started to think she liked that slave work...or was she programmed to like it?
Finally, She appears. The hairstylist. All dressed in black, with amazingly soft, straight hair. Super nice, super smiley. Looking in the mirror, I see blondie and another young assistant looking at me, as if waiting to receive orders or expecting me to stand up any second and furiously ask "Where is my...?" (insert object that one definitely needs to receive while being at the hairdresser and can legitimately be outraged if they don't). We talk about what I want; she says "super" to everything. Then I show her a picture of the haircut that I had found on the internet. "Wow, great! That's so cool" Yeah it is, and I want it, and that's why I am here, so let's just do this. She explains to me how she would do it, I make some jokes about my hair and the current haircut - no reaction. Smile. She tells me a few more details, I ask something, she answers, smile. She asks me if I want to drink anything, takes a breath, and recites the "menu"; I ask for water (Why on Earth did I do that when they had prosecco?). She then sends me away with Blondie, to get my hair washed. Blondie sits me down, puts a towel on my shoulders, turns on the water, gives me a head massage (Urgh, why is this even a thing?!); she thanks me after each and every action. I know her smile - the same smile - is still there. She washes and styles away silently, but I can hear her smile in her breath. At the end, she thanks me for having let her serve me while I sat down, leaning back like royalty, and takes me back to the chair (In my head, she also makes a very deep courtsey).
And then the cutting begins. She explains to me the science of hair and curls and cutting and styling with so much confidence, that I start to believe there must be scientific journals and papers on this topic. When I ask her stuff, she answers. When I open a topic or say something just to keep up the conversation she answers with one sentence, or just nods politely and smiles, nothing else. Then she starts again with the speeches on the science of hairstyling, and I feel the need to look at her in the mirror to see if she is reading from some notes. She is not, but her speech is almost mechanical and so full of big words, that I am somehow surprised to see no stack of paper or laptop next to her.
She is done. The haircut is lovely, so great, and my hair is amazing, and now it looks even more amazing, because she cut it with such style, and it will be absolutely fabulous if I buy this amazing product to give it strength and elasticity and some other terms dangerously close to my research field in mechanics (Yes, I bought it, I am a very nice client and consumer). And that was it. 60 minutes of being served, 15 minutes of being styled. After paying, She brings me my cardigan and coat and - no, She does not hand them to me, She holds them for me; so all I need to do is stick my long arms in the sleeves. Then I get chocolate and a bunch of other promotional stuff. I can't find my phone and receptionist, hairstylist, and two assistants all put on worried faces (smiles are still on though), they look around the room, until the hairstylist offers to call me so I can find it faster. I find it in my bag, smile, and they all seem to relax their shoulders in relief. I say goodbye and leave.
Walking away from Fancy Expensive Haircuts GmbH, I can't help but wonder what sort of people come there regularly, for which this kind of service is necessary: excessive politeness, readiness to serve, fake smiles and mechanical speeches with no real interest for the person - but for the client as a master. How much training does it take to make these little robots? Also, should I make them work more and be more arrogant when I go there next time? Because I can? And, finally, is the bunch of hair stylishly hanging out of my freshly cut bob on the right side of my head longer than the one hanging on my left side?
