The customer expectation gap
Man, getting dumped sucks. You think you've finally found a hairstylist who understands you when they suddenly up and go pff to parts unknown, leaving behind a hastily scribbled note saying "it's not you, it's me". Was I too needy? Not willing to commit to layered bangs? Or did my haircut become too much of a routine affair?
Well spread the word, I'm back in the game looking for someone who can tame the wild beast that is my bad hair. In this town, though, changing hairstylists is tantamount to dicing with danger. You'd be better off sticking your hand into a tankful of starving piranha. It's all because of the customer expectation gap, and it grows wider everytime somebody over here gets their hair done.
What you say: I'm growing out my bangs at the moment so you don't need to do anything to them.
What happens:
What you say: I have to attend a very important function tonight so I need to look good. Give me a elegantly tousled updo.
What happens:
What you say: I want to give my hair some body and curl but I'm not ready for a full-on perm. Any suggestions?
What happens:
What you say: Can you just crimp one small section of my hair to see if I like the look?
What happens:
What you say: I'd like to go with some natural looking highlights this time. Just blend them in so they don't look fake, you know what I mean?
What happens:
What you say: My dog's fur keeps getting into his eyes. Can you give the area around its eyes a little trim?
What happens:
posted by Spirit Fingers @ 11:02 PM
7 comments
7 Comments:
HILARIOUS. Don't stop!
Holy Cow, do I ever feel for you. Lived in a Cairo suburb for a while, and finally found a roaming British stylist who made house calls and understood crazy-curly hair. "Hallelujah!"
Thankfully, I'm an old bald dude so I don't have to share your angst, but your story and absolutely awesome photo examples remind me of an acquaintance whose hairdresser committed suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge just minutes before my friend's appointment.
Though he was startled by the news and felt slightly responsible ("was I that difficult a client?"), he only had one serious question for the salon. "Did he leave the formula?" What formula? "He was the only person who could make me plausibly blonde in my entire life."
The formula, as it turned out, also went to a watery grave.
That's a sad story on several levels :(
sfmike, your story reminded me of my junior-high square dance, but in a roundabout way.
They'd scheduled a square dance for our middle school, and we were torn between mortification at the thought of performing some sort of hitherto completely unknown folk dance whilst having impromptu instructions yelled at us by an man in overalls, and secret glee that we'd finally have a sanctioned excuse to hold [sweaty] hands with a member of the opposite sex.
Well, the morning of the square-dance dawned, and our homeroom teacher solemnly stood before the class and apologized for having to cancel the square dance----because the caller had died the night before. Absolute silence. I mean, horror that this poor overall-clad man had died in his sleep, and deep-seated disappointment at the death of our hand-holding dreams.
On the morning of the Resurrection, my mother will rise from her grave [early] in order to get her hair done first.
Which, of course, explains why I've been hacking my own hair to bits for the last decade...
Interesting thoughts, I really enjoyed your blog
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