If I were to poll ladies in the Emirates asking what they most miss from ‘home’ and which is not available here, I imagine, the answer would be a resounding ‘my hair salon/hair stylist/someone who knows how to style my hair properly/someone who can colour my hair without turning it green/someone who understands the concept of cutting long layers/someone who understands curly hair/someone who understands a trim is not the same as chopping off 3 inches’….I think you get the idea!
I have to admit, I could tick almost all of the above. 5+ years in the sandpit and I am still looking for a stylist who understands my Gaelic frizz, and who can style it consistently well (BTW – blowdries here are amazing…so good, they even camouflage the ‘cutting’ inadequacies. But going to the salon every other day for a blowdry is not an option, not even for the Jumeirah Janes among us!).
In advance of a night out with DH and his boss recently, I booked a blowdry at my local salon. I like this salon because they work magic on my parched, thick tresses and I get a mini head massage after the wash! Red Carpet ready hair and zen to boot. Multi-tasking is always a win-win!
That was until my recent experience…..A stern, Russian looking lady with thick, bleached blond hair led me to the, what I now consider old styled ceramic wash basins, (which for some reason remind me of urinals) and practically pushed me into the chair. Continuing in her rough way she grabbed my hair, and went about her less than gentle hair washing. ‘Zen’ was looking about as attainable as a sweet slumber for the mother of a newborn!
I should mention, I am a tad pernickety when it comes to certain things, one of which is how important it is to wash one’s scalp and not just the hair. I recall a few instances where my hairwash left my hair drier than that of a baby’s baptised head.
My latest experience, however, was on the opposite end of the spectrum. This washer scrubbed my head as if she were burrowing furrows into uncared for, dried up sod into which my terrified follicles would sink.
I gripped the arms of the chair and braced myself, praying she would skip the massage and direct me straight to the blowdry. I figured my chances of relaxation were higher with an overheating hairdryer pointed directly at my head than a ‘massage’ from what felt like ‘trained to kill’ fingers intent on boring holes into my skull.
Alas, it was not to be. The head massage was part of this washer’s routine. As she started, I pictured a Russian assasin who could kill by wrangling her fingers through openings of hair follicles. Perhaps that was her former occupation….I really believed if she ventured near my temples, she would knock me unconscious. BUT…to my surprise, her massage was amazingly relaxing. Firm but relaxing. It was just the right amount of pressure which edged me towards nirvana……
I was simulatneously floating and buzzing when I sat down and awaited my blowdry. Not even the stylist’s outburst of horror at how dry, and uncared for my hair was….’Haraam’…..(a word normally reserved for the ‘forbidden’ and which feels like it’s on a par with ‘blasphemy’) could burst my bubble!
BTW….as always, the blowdry was coiff perfection!