Hair is a shockingly important subject to women, and I suspect men too, or else women probably wouldn’t care so much. We have too much here, too little there, the imperfect color, the undesirable texture, and on top of all this, we have 5,000,000 products out there to attempt to remedy the situation. Demi Moore apparently didn’t go to the Golden Globes on Sunday due to a “bad hair day”, and really, if there’s no hope for disgustingly rich Demi Moore, why do mortals like us even bother?
As ridiculous as that is, I get it. I get how a good or bad hair day can completely change one’s mood. I continue to buy different shampoos and conditioners and all sorts of other crap hoping to find the miracle product that will finally make my hair look the way I think it should. For women who are as silly as I, this is an expensive (not to mention futile) mission. A cut and highlights at a mid-range salon can cost up to $250 (not including tips) and I am embarrassed to admit that yes, I have spent this much on my hair.
Current circumstances have forced me to accept that a person in my near-homeless status does not need a $250 haircut, and I have done quite a good job convincing myself that my hair will end up looking like a mess 48 hours after a haircut anyway, so it doesn’t really matter if it’s a good cut or not . . .
. . . but then a little bird told me about a little something called the Frederic Fekkai hair model program, and well . . . you know, now that I think about it, hair actually really is extremely important.
A free haircut! Doesn’t that seemingly wonderful phrase conjure up all sorts of awful images? Yes, yes it does, but they asked me to do it and against everyone’s advice, I agreed. Besides, a creative director at one of the most expensive salons in the city? I think I can probably handle that.
My appointment was yesterday morning and though I was seriously nervous, I trotted down to Soho, envisioning what was likely to go down; you know, generically foreign people fussing over me, cigarettes dangling from their mouths, severe plastic square glasses upon their noses, and deciding upon, “ahh, mais oui!!” something that looks like this:
Whatever, I can run, right? If I feel uncomfortable I will just scream and run away. Grow a pair, grow a pair, grow a pair, I kept chanting to myself, knowing too well of my overly polite ways. When I walked up the stairs and into the lovely salon, I started to feel slightly more at ease. Almost immediately, two men led me in front of a full length mirror as they sized me up, head to toe, boots to earrings, and fluffed, pulled, and yanked my hair while speaking far-too-fast French that was way beyond my “bonjour, je m’appele Kiki, et tois?” abilities.
“So, you’re okay with that?” asked the younger one of the two, who proceeded to laugh at my stunned face. “Just kidding”. Whew.
Shockingly, this went very much like any regular hair appointment would go – he asked me what I wanted, what I do, how I style my hair, if I was looking for a change, and then made his suggestions. At that point, I felt totally at ease and told him to just go for it.
There were three of us “models”, and one by one we stood in front of a group of regular stylists as the creative directors explained what they had in store for each of us and why and how they would go about doing it. I was thrilled when my stylist laid out his plans and everyone responded with “that is a great idea! Perfect!” Whew, ok. Ten people wouldn’t lie to me, right?
After our hair was washed with that luxurious Frederic Fekkai shampoo and conditioner that smells divinely of spring and rich people, we stood one at a time in front of the “students” while our stylists cut our hair. The funny thing about being a model is that people talk about you as if you aren’t a real person: “with her long, thin neck, would you ever cut shorter?” “this girl is very tall, and short hair makes one look taller” “we have here a very pretty girl, so there is not only one style for her, with her we could do anything” “she is too pretty to have a regular haircut, she cannot look like everyone else”, “is her hair colored? It doesn’t need to be, she has such a lovely base”. I sat there in awe, eyes wide open like a dork, wanting to say “ohh, really?? Wow, thank you so much! Oh my goodness!”, but I don’t think models are allowed to talk.
I soon realized why haircuts here are so expensive: “here, have some tea, relax, and let us compliment you over and over again while we make you even MORE beautiful than you already are! If that’s even possible, as you are the incarnation of the perfect woman I usually only see in my dreams!” HERE, TAKE ALL OF MY MONEY. What else do you want? Lip gloss? Gum? Keys? Here, take my whole bag. Need a green card? Sure, I’ll marry you. Compliments are just better when they come from complete strangers who happen to be charming French men who know how to make you pretty.
This, in a nutshell, is what’s wrong with the world. Society works in a way that allows rich people to feel better about themselves all the time, in nearly every possible situation, while regular people are made to feel like worthless crap. Typically when I go to my normal salon, they’ll reprimand me for using a flat iron and tell me that my hair is damaged and try to guilt me into buying some more products. It’s just not right and I for one refuse to stand for it.
And that’s precisely why I’m going back as a highlight and color model next week.
I have a dream, my friends, I have a dream.
You can check out my new dreamy look here.