Awkward moment at the hairdresser’s today. I blame the trashy gossip magazine which mentioned some actress being on a ‘most hated in Hollywood’ scale. My hairdresser says, “Why her?… I like her.” “I don’t. She probably smells and tastes of cigarettes,” I said. Because I’ve seen photos of her in other trashy magazines puffing away like it’s her last day on earth.
My hairdresser doesn’t say anything for about five minutes.
Suddenly, I realise that I can smell cigarettes/smoke on his fingers, which are busily trimming my fringe. (How could I not have smelt/known/figured this out before?)
Excellent. Not excellent. Whatever.
I guess I am a little bit on the intolerant side when it comes to cigarettes.
So now I’m feeling a tad guilty about being judgemental about smokers and, by association, my hairdresser too. I was very relieved when he didn’t fry my hair but gave me beachy waves instead. Suffice to say, I hope the tip was enough. Surely he’ll have forgotten about it by the next visit? I guess I’ll know if I end up with a disasterous fringe or a bowl cut. (Of course I’m going to go back – just call it living on the edge. Hah!)
Listening: Secondhand Rapture by MS MR