The Salon of the Staring Uncle

Maybe I should just buy a "Flowbee™ and be done with it. I'll confess, it's tempting. I've just been having so much salon trouble lately.

I'm not sure when it became so hard to find a salon that satisfies. The trouble, I suppose, is that my standards are too high.

That, and my own scissor skills leave something to be desired. (And I've reached a point in my life where I accept my imperfections - consider them part of my "charm." )

My haircutting skills are highly "charming". I've practiced on myself, my son, my daughter, and the dog. Without fail, the results cause ruptured internal organs as my husband either a) laughs himself unconscious  (in the case of my human endeavors) or b) blows a gasket (in the case of the dog's "flying nun" 'do. Per legal contract, our Vet Technician now has exclusive rights.)

I'm bad at cutting hair. Ergo, I need professional help. People spend years in therapy coming to terms with their character flaws - I think such self-knowledge would buy karma points. But no. My luck runs screaming in the other direction, apparently, where hair is involved.

Through many salon doors, I've traipsed expectantly, full of hope and optimism for a hair experience unparalleled in it's, you now, adequacy. Each time I convince myself: "This is it!" This is the place my dreams will come true, and I'll get a decent trim at a decent price, and no stalkers.

Apparently, I expect miracles.

In the past year, I have been to FIVE different salons. Take into account that over the summer, I went 4 months between trims, opting to wear it braided (enduring all manner of "Heidi" jokes) storing up nerve to try again.

The Salon of the Mall Markup provided nice ambiance, and a reasonable cut, but the mortgage broker turned down my application, and I found myself unable to afford a return visit.

At The Salon of the Metric Conversion, I would maintain that 3 centimeters and 3 inches are not the same thing. But, apparently, I would be wrong.

The Salon of the Pushy Product Mongers has a business plan that includes publicly humiliating  the customers if they admit to using shampoo bought at a supermarket. "Hey Stella! Get a load of little Miss Prell, here! It's a wonder it hasn't all just FALLEN OUT, eh?" Their pricey products, no doubt, will prevent my tresses from turning all colors of cheap.

The Salon of the Mail Order Wives took some getting used to. Came across as sort of an international "Hooters", without the redeeming hot wings. They could cut some hair, I'll give them that - but if a man showed up, nothing short of an air horn could wrestle their attention back. It was "become one with asymmetry" or bolt.

I had high hopes for The Salon of the Staring Uncle. It seemed a family-friendly establishment. So family-friendly, in fact, that the stylists' gaggle of vaguely interrelated children amused themselves taping wads of cut hair to the shoes of patrons, and trimming the edges of the plastic capes (etc.) into a fetching fringe. Kids I can take. It was the elderly "uncle-ish" man that worried me. He would just wander through, stopping to stare for several minutes at a time from each angle. Up close. Further back. Never spoke, never was spoken to. Could have had no affiliation whatsoever with the salon - might have just been a passerby. And, you know, after 2 or 3 visits, it's just too awkward to ask. I prefer the "slink away" strategy.

So I'm in the market again, and venturing further off my normal route. Making deals in alleyways for the address of a good salon. Stalking ladies with nice hair. In a sort of bizarre poetic irony, I have become the "Uncle".

I need help.
I wonder if I could get an appointment with the Vet Tech.