Potpourri
Yesterday, I went to get my hair cut, and the nice assistant girl told me she was going to massage my scalp with oil. My eyebrows rose slightly, and I said, “Uh, I just wanted the usual cut–have I mistakenly ordered the King Xerxes Package?” I had not. My hair place has converted to Avedaism, which also helped to explain the glass of rose-hip tea and lavender-scented hot towel I’d been offered on entering. I’d just figured they were placating me because my hair guy was running late. But it’s apparently part of their routine now.
I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me edgier than the promiscuous sloshing about of soothing essences. I’m not one of those guys whose hygiene consists of a rough white washcloth and a bar of Ivory soap, but I don’t do anything that requires more than fifteen minutes from turning on the shower to being ready to get dressed. I don’t even wear cologne.
By the time I was halfway through my haircut, I nearly leapt from the chair and was like, “Okay, this is way too gay even for me.” In addition to rose-hips and lavender, there were bergamot and some other stuff in the massage oil, mint-type-things in the shampoo, and something that smelled like cut grass in the styling wax. (No, I don’t use styling wax, but my hair guy seems to think I’m not getting my money’s worth if he doesn’t gunk up my head before sending me off into the great, wide world.) I had so many plant extracts on me, I was afraid someone would tie me up in a tulle bag and toss me into the sweater drawer.
Are you sure all they do is haircuts, now? In Taiwan, a little scalp massage is often an invitation to ask about other “services”.
In this case, it was an invitation to ask about the full range of Aveda skin-care products. My hair place is strictly an honest establishment, to my knowledge, but if it did start diversifying into the various forms of intimate “services,” they could hardly be more expensive than the bubble-bath on offer.