The Salon Sagas

Low self-esteem. The fatal flaw of this generation. The industries have sniffed this out and the traps are all set. All that remains is for an unsuspecting millennial to walk into one. I nearly walked into one too. Here is that sketch.

 Usual Sunday morning at the hair salon, wrapped in an apron, staring vacantly at the painted walls, contemplating life (that’s what you do at these places right?). When I reached that point where you realize contemplation is actually making you feel worse, I let my eyes loiter around the pristine interior. A model stared at me from somewhere to my right with her haughty olive eyes and a mocking smile. Her hair, a flawless shiny stream of a curious woody brown lay sprawled over her shoulder. They had apparently captured her as she was stroking it. “Mocha Balayage”, it said with a code underneath. Hmmm…how would that look on me? My brain photoshopped instantly & flashed half a dozen images of me with the mocha-something on. Both my brain and I knew straight away it wouldn’t work on my generally frizzy, rebellious hair that would gulp that mocha-something down for it’s evening tea. I sighed inaudibly and turned my eyes to the next poster. Yeah, I know, big mistake. Too late a realization. This actress had violent shade of violet smeared across her lips, thick artful strokes of kohl across her lashes and sharp jawline highlighted with a bronzer. The effect was stunning. I am pretty sure I ran a self-conscious hand across my not-too sharp jawline and checked my unrouged ordinary lips in the mirror. My brain and I, we tried on the violet on my lips.  A good night’s sleep lost. Great. An inaudible sigh again. By now I wanted to get done with the hair-cut and head home. Not anytime sooner judging at the stylist lady’s pace. A couple of more posters, a couple of more blows on my already low self -esteem. I have to agree some were very glamorous- the whole idea of walking out of the parlour, transformed, after an hour’s treatment with porcelain skin was just too tempting. Temping to the point where I opened my mouth & made an enquiry to the stylist. Her painted face seemed to glow with triumph as her pink lips stretched painfully wide into an exaggerated smile. Her eyes now had a fire in them. This kind of maniacal flame you get to see in animations as the characters rub their palms together & move in for the kill. I got a little scared at this point.  She excused herself and ran out with glee. Realization of my stupidity was fast dawning, as I began curse myself. She returned with a pamphlet which explained the common problems people encounter on their quest for beauty. She made sure to point out I had every one of those mishaps. Fizziness. Check. Acne marks. Check. Skin tan. Check. Dryness. Skin oiliness. (Yes, I don’t think both of those go together), but then Check. Melasma. Check. Et cetera and Et cetera. Check. Check. Check. By the time she was done explaining I qualified for the treatment, I was cursing fluently under my breath. “Idiot”, my brain admonished. “It was just one question…”, I wept inconsolably inside. An hour had elapsed by the time I literally tore the apron away, jumped off my seat, threw open the door and rushed to the counter to get done with the bill. The stylist lady asked if I would like to take the treatment that evening or at any convenient timing. She declared I was lucky that it was raining offers and I was just 5999 rupees away from flawlessness. I opened my purse. A dusty moth flew out. I deposited the thousand bucks- all that was left in the purse and smiled.