To Look Nice (Part 1)

We enter the place, and I feel immediately sticky, and non-belonging. Like if I had just entered a cave filled with sleeping bears. Their snores had been replaced by the harsh and non-connecting sound of the hairdryers, though. The tension is strong, and I feel that in any moment, I would be grabbed by someone and pulled over to the fixing of doom.

And all this sacrifice for my uncle. Thank you, I say sarcastically, but then I reprehend myself. It’s for a good purpose; I’ll get my hair done, and my nails too, and then it’s over. No orgy. Seriously, I could be like lost in the jungle, or something. I’m complaining over nothing. Whiny you.

My sister has already sat down and established herself like a proper nomad, and she is now drawing on some paper she brought. Mom walks to one of the ladies, and they talk, and she seats down, and her hair is wet. She has started.

I don’t realize I am still standing up, till a short lady comes and calls me. Apparently it’s my turn as well. Fun. I am suddenly jealous of my sister, whose still sitting on the small chair, drawing her brains out.

First, I must wet my hair. The water is cold, and the lady’s nails too long. I prey hard for my head not to hurt, and I try to relax. Water is turned down. Shampoo time. Though I can’t see, I can feel for the colour to be something totally childish and inappropriate, and the odour is strong and I close my nostrils as fast as possible, to avoid dizziness.

When the washing is over, I get up, and the lady brings me a vine-coloured towel, that doesn’t adapt to my head that good. The cold water drips on my shoulders and the droplets rush against my back. I stand straight. I walk towards the chair I’m signalled to.

Once I’m seating down, I look upfront. In the mirror, it’s very weird me, with a pink shirt and the towel. In the desk, there are all sorts of things. Hair pins, brushes, certainly unneeded creams and sprays that increase global warming.

The sound is making me dizzy. I study the colour of my assigned hairdryer; yellow, like the shampoo. It has many buttons, and it’s scary. There is one big red button, as in ‘Do not Touch’. The lady does whatsoever and the thing burst to miserable life.

Though I can’t move my head, I do, and look around. I feel left out, certainly. Back in the bear cave. Around me there is more ladies, and surprisingly some men, and they are attacking the clients’ hair, and the clients don’t seem to care. Monotonous. But they are brave too. I must move my head, or else I swear I’ll get burned. I am offered a drink, but I say no, to not be nice. I am offered a magazine, but I brought my own book, supposedly. I read books, anyway.