At least twice a week, some seemingly satirical character pops into the bike shop, says something hilarious, and leaves me thinking, “Oh no, this is too good to not write about on the internet. Yet, I cannot do it.”
It’s torturous being this much of a square.
Even though I generally respect people less than I did ten years ago, I show them more respect. To be fair, this is probably because so many more people been involved in my life since then.
Instead, the scandal of the week is going to have to be about my new thing, which is…
spending $200 bleaching my hair.
In a day.
Normally, I don’t spend that much on my hair in a year! 1oz of bleach powder and developer costs me about $10, and I touch up my roots every 6-8 weeks. Let’s say I do this 8 times a year: that’s $80.
Once a year, though, I’ll decide that it has too much of a DIY look to it and get my hairdresser to un-fuck it. My regular hairdresser is actually in Vancouver, so he’s more like my irregular hairdresser as I’ve mostly not lived in Vancouver. Other than that, I’ve been a loyal client of his since I was 19.
With no plans to visit the mainland for a while, and the fact that it costs me money to get there and back anyway, I booked with someone else.
Someone very expensive.
When the POS terminal was handed to me, and I saw the total on the screen, I wanted to knock their dumb scrunchie display onto the floor with one great Godzilla-like swat. “$20 for a scrunchie? ARE YOU MAD? $200 for a bleach job? YOU ARE MAD.”
While I begrudgingly punched in my card details, I realized that I had stuck one arm through the pit vent of my jacket instead of the sleeve before zippering it up. I tried to laugh it off by pointing it out to the receptionist, who quickly redirected her glance to her computer screen.
Well, thanks for helping break the awkwardness.
So, I left the hairdresser’s feeling like an idiot in two ways. My hair does look beautiful though.
I’m more likely to sprout a third limb than drop another $200 on my hair.