Stuck in a Swivel Chair: A Day in the Life of Hali Hair

It’s 6:02. I’ve now been here for close to five hours. I’m hungry…actually fantasizing about eating the chicken at home in the fridge in the blue Tupperware on the top shelf near my cucumbers and hummus that my husband barbequed yesterday. I’m picturing it…on one of our dark green plates from Crate & Barrel from our wedding registry, sticking a fork in the entire thing and shoving it in my mouth. Not shoving in an erotic sort of way but shoving in a desperate I’m starving please lord help me before I pass out sort of way. Not that I couldn’t afford to lose a few pounds. (Twelve to be exact…but who’s counting?)

I’ve had to pee for two and half hours. Not badly at first but now, the painful kind.  Like I just finished off a keg and my bladder is hard and uncomfortable. I can see the bathroom door in the mirror. It’s behind me, it’s brown, and it’s taunting me.

 And I’m tired…so tired. My lazy eyelid has reached its lowest drooping point and I look like I’m totally wasted. This wasn’t supposed to take this long. But now I can’t get out of here. I’m trapped. Stuck in a black swivel chair in Fantastic Sam’s.

It’s my fault, really. You see, I wanted something new. With my hair seven and a half different shades of brown, honey, and orange (not by choice…thanks a lot sun!), I felt it was time for a little somethin’ somethin’. Perhaps a shade darker…closer to my natural color…if I can remember what that is… but with a splash. I spent an hour on my ipad searching “brown hair with blond highlights” cycling through some great, some not so great, and a shitload of Beyoncé. I kept coming back to an image of dark brown hair with thin blond streaks around her face and woven sparingly throughout her head. I showed it to my husband. “What do you think of this?” I asked. “I like that. “ He said. With his stamp of approval, I texted my hairdresser who I’ve been going to for five years. And yes, she works at Fantastic Sam’s and before you judge, know that I’m very picky about my hair. My hair is huge, both literally and metaphorically. Without the curls and without the length, I become boring in my mind. Yes, perhaps it’s a twisted mind…an insecure and irrational mind but I fear that without my hair, I’m not Hali.

From the age of six on, my parents and I had our hair cut by only the best of the best in Beverly Hills. We’d get dressed up and excited for a day in “The City”, into the land of Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus where we’d shop among the elite with our newly fluffed and folded hair. Yes, those were the days. But now that I’m an adult and apparently responsible for paying for my lifestyle on my own, there are fewer of those days…and that’s okay. I know where to trim the fat and, although my hair is “my thing”, once I trust someone with it, it’s a done deal. I need someone who will listen to what I want and won’t make me run screaming and crying from their establishment. (This did happen once, by the way, when I was thirteen…at our Beverly Hills place…with someone new. It’s too painful to relive.)

I arrive at 1:17, 13 minutes early, which is my normal M.O.; I’m just always early. The thought of being even a minute late brings so much anxiety that it’s just not worth it. Anna, with her blond hair pulled into a side bun, is running behind. Okay, no biggie. I’ve come prepared with two US Weeklies and a People that I’ve been saving just for this moment. At 2:05 I begin to grow concerned. Already through my first magazine, I now know that with the usual two and a half to three hours this usually takes, I won’t be home until close to 5:00. But I try and look at the positive. I’m in a salon which smells pretty darn good, I’m relaxing with my summer reading…poor Jen and Ben…what happened? And I’ve got some okay seventies music piping through the place. I can make this work.

At 2:15 I’m in the swivel chair. Yes! Here we go! I’ve got one and a half magazines left, I’m good. Now, you have to understand that I have a lot of hair. And because we’re basically removing the 20 shades of orange from my head and going for a solid color, it’s going to take some time.

By 5:00, I’m wondering why I’ve done this to myself. And sitting on the counter in front of me are my magazines, all curved at their little magazine spines, and I wish I hadn’t finished them. Like maybe there’s an article I missed. Should I go back and read the ad for Tecfidera and the list of 73 side effects that would rather make you want the disease than take this medication for it? Oh, to read a new gossip magazine…what a dream it would be.  

“I may have to redo these highlights.” Anna says, looking inside the foil squares on my head. Her deep voice is serious in tone, unlike an hour ago when we were laughing together about an older woman who was screaming at one of Anna’s co-workers. I mean, it is Fantastic Sam’s. You’re gonna get some doozies in there.

“Really? Why?” I respond, mid-yawn…tired with low blood sugar. A lethal combination for anyone in my area of existing.

“The color isn’t taking all the way, see? It’s still orange.”

Fuck! I mean…fuck! Maybe it’s not really that orange. Okay, let’s think. How orange does it have to be for me to stay in this place for another god knows how long?

“See?” She dangles a strand of Hali hair that resembles a slender carrot. FUCK!

“Okay.” Is all I can get out.

And she walks me to the sink and I have to hold my head up by myself because she can only wash the unhighlighted parts. And that’s when I remember the kid from Jerry McGuire saying, “The human head weighs 8 pounds.” My human head feels like at least 11 or 13 given that I have a pile of wet hair on top of it. And my stomach is growling and the sound of the sink is reminding me of the pee that’s trapped inside and my neck hurts and I’m just done. I’m officially over this.

“Okay, I’m gonna redo the highlights. It shouldn’t take that long.”

At this point I can only nod. There are no more words. No more saliva even. I think about going to the bathroom but don’t want to prolong this. So I continue to hold it. I’ve always been someone who can sit in mild discomfort well. It’s not something I’m really proud of or show off to the world but my threshold is pretty high.

Twelve minutes later I’m back at the sink, luckily with my whole head all in. Good. This is good. Just rinse it, comb it and I’m out of here.

“I need to do a conditioning treatment. Just for like 15 minutes. I’ll put you under the heater. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think it would really help you hair. You’ve got a lot of color in it.”

OH-MY-GOD!!! I want to kill her. I want to kill Pat Benatar and Bryan Adams and Chicago and this radio station for playing them so many times that I’m no longer a fan.

“Okay.” My very being has disappeared.

6:20 I’m being rinsed. 6:27 I’m combing through my new hair. 6:35 I’m paying. 6:42 I’m almost home and realize that I added the tip wrong on the receipt. FUCK! Given my weakened state, I did something I only do when I’m totaling up a bill after having had a few cocktails. I added wrong. In my desperation to break free, I wrote in a $30 tip but totaled it as if I had added $50. FUCK! Now what? Do I ignore it? Pretend like it didn’t happen? No, they’ll know! I text Anna and explain that I added it wrong. She texts me back an LOL which makes me feel better. So I throw in another $10 and tell her the tip is $40. I mean, over six hours this woman worked on me. I’m like her only tip that day!

I walk in my front door, my hair still dripping, open the fridge and pull out the blue Tupperware of chicken. I grab a fork, stumble to the sofa, sit next to my husband and cat and shove the chicken in my mouth. I’m living my fantasy. And it’s the best chicken I’ve ever tasted.