On HairAt physical therapy today, there was a discussion about hair.
Even at my unfortunately advanced age, there are still moments when women seem like a secret tribe, deep in the Amazon, never before seen by outsiders.
When I get my hair cut, I'm asked one question: "How much do you want to take off?"
For women, apparently, the process is a labyrinth of costs and choices.
To start with, stylists have "levels". A level one stylist is a trainee, basically, while a level six stylist apparently fuses atoms with her shears.
My physical therapist said she went to a new salon recently, and when you go to a salon for the first time, you have a consultation.
I'm not making this up, I swear.
She opted for a level three stylist. Another lady: "That's smart. I went lower once and you're risking it all. I walked out worse than I went in. I looked like Hermione Granger in movie one."
Back to the consultation.
She listed all the things she wanted done, and was quoted two hundred and eighty dollars. However, after talking to the manager and using various legerdemain, the price magically became one hundred and thirty instead.
Me? Twenty-five bucks, including a nice tip.
I am, of course, not availing myself of salon-style services, one of which is putting your wet hair on a board, straightening it out, and painting it. Or something.