Would you like an insult with that pedicure?

Whenever I leave my hairstylist’s salon, I always feel so inadequate. Basically like I just fell off the back of the ugly truck. I realize that it really shouldn’t be this way. Quite the opposite, I should feel my most pretty. And my feelings of repulsiveness have absolutely nothing to do with the haircut. To be honest, the only reason that I still go there is strictly because of the haircuts.

The salon is the newest, trendiest salon in my town. Complete with industrial, stained-concrete floors, flambouyantly gay men, and half the stylists wearing hats at a jaunty angle. I went to go get my first cut there because they were down the trendy street that my husband and I used to live on and one of his friends had done some design work for them. The second that I walked in I just knew that they were not my style (i.e. none). Apart from the industrial edge, they had all of 2 (uncomfortable) seats in the waiting area (not the smooshy old couches I’m used to from my old salon). The only magazine subscriptions they carry are Vogue and some bizarre architectural mag (although thank heavens someone’s been leaving their old Real Simples). So I’m already feeling like a fish out of water just stepping foot in the place.

But here’s why I leave feeling like Princess Toadstool: The place is swarming with jellyfishers. Perhaps you are not familiar with this phrase from Bridget Jones Diary, let me explain. Jellyfishers are those people (usually women, but I have discovered that gay male hairdressers are also fairly skilled at this) who will say something that at first seems like an innocuous comment (the really good ones can even make it seem like an initial compliment), but then…sting. You realize that it was a snarky jab the whole time. At the salon, it typically comes in the form of an offer for further services or misguessing what services I’m there for. (“And you’re here for highlights?” “No. A haircut.” “Ohhhh.”)

Why do I keep going back? Why? Why? Because that dang Kelli cuts my hair better than any other person I’ve ever gone to. I swear her scissors are made of magical metal. So I’ll return again and again, like a moth to an insulting flame.