Beauty School Drop-Out

Now I knew that I was taking a risk by making an appointment for a hair cut at the Aveda Institute of Chicago. I only wanted a trim, though, and $13 sounded like exactly the amount I wanted to spend on one. Of course, at that price the options are limited. It's either Supercuts or beauty school, so I chose the latter.

So I don't know why I'm surprised that I wasn't blown away by the results. Still, after sitting in that chair for an hour and 40 minutes you'd think I'd have something positive to say. And wait, I do. At least she didn't cut off too much. Honestly, I don't think she cut off any. I saw the scissors and heard them snip, but I'm not sure I really saw any hair fall to the floor. Besides, she needed the majority of that hour and 40 minutes to "style" my hair, a process which involved mostly loading it up with 4 different kinds of product, blow-drying it, rewetting it, adding more product, and then sort of blow-drying it again.

Anyway, what really surprised me was that these "students" behaved in a way shockingly similar to the high school students I taught in a former life. For the duration of my haircut, another student, who didn't have a client that afternoon, sat in her own chair and stared at me, chattering away with my stylist-in-training about everything from Chipotle burritos to their plans for Saturday night to the haircut she'd botched that morning.

The best little exchange however was this one: (It made me want to tell the idle student that before pursuing a license in hair design, she might have been better served by attending the school of tact.)

Idle student to mine, wielding hair dryer: "Jessica, you remind me of my dad."

Hair dryer stops.

Jessica (my stylist) says: "I remind you of your dad?"

Hair drying resumes.

I.S. : "No, I don't mean like the way you act."

Hair dryer stops.

Jessica: "Oh, so the way I look?" (Now, I must interject here, that, unfortunate as it was, Jessica was somewhat manly in appearance, and also, though not necessarily unfortunate, clearly of a non-western, non-caucasian ethnic background.)

I.S. : "No, no, no. I just mean... you're like... foreign, like my dad."

Jessica: "Did you just say foreign?"

I.S. : "Well, I mean, you're like, not American."

Jessica: "I was born in Oak Park!"

I.S. (turning red and scrambling out of her chair) : "OK, fine." (And, just before running away completely) "But you're definitely brown."

So three months from now, will I be making another appointment at the Aveda Institute? I'll let you be the judge of that, but let's just say the outcome may be a good gauge of just how poor and desperate I am at that point.