And then I was fabulous.

So I went to the salon recently. My first mistake was ignoring the sign, "Haircuts start at $40" thinking I was a big shot on payday even though every other person around me also was on payday.

The woman at the counter's voice sounded like she just got done giving a balloon a blowjob and she proceeded to take my coat into a very oddly placed and somewhat ineffectual stand alone closet. They told me to sit down in this equally ineffectual 2 chair area they called a "lounge" and asked me if I wanted a drink. I thought they were offering water or coffee, but instead gave me a drink list that would have made Starbucks cringe. Being my adventurous, risk taking self I asked for tea. What I got was over steeped Good Earth. They tried. I'm a pretentious Teavanna connoisseur so I couldn't have an opinion. I was also pretty sure they got these leaf green mugs from Target.

I didn't even get to sip it before my hair dresser greets herself and whisks me away into the chair of magical hair-cutting fabulousness and massages my shoulders. Well. I'm not sure how I was supposed to know what I wanted as I was melting into a puddle, but I was getting a fucking massage at a hair salon and I didn't care (at the moment) if she took out a buzzer (at the moment).

I told her how I wanted my hair cut, she suggested something else, I corrected her again I heard it repeated back to me as something skewed. I didn't want to argue - she was uncomfortably close to every scary painful part on my body and I didn't want to leave with scissors in my jugular.

I was again whisked into the back room of more head massages and that glorious neck breaking hair wash sink.

After I went back to the main chair the magic started happening. Don't get me wrong, hair dressers are wonderful people, but trying to have a conversation with them is like trying to have your friends explain directions to that one fucking house in the maze of suburb back roads that said friends insist is "easy" to find, but you're drunk and confused and there's three pink lawn flamingoes in the back of your car that you don't know how it got there and there's people chasing you angrily down the street and it's just not a good time for anyone.

I'm not sure how I got forced talked into the extra $20 charge to make my hair shine like a Lamborghini car lot. I paid $20 for 5 sprays of some chemical oil stuff.

$20. For five. I counted.

One hour and lots of tiny hairs assaulting my eyeballs later I was done. She offered to style my hair for free like I was getting some deal I couldn't refuse. I wanted it straight. Once again I was defeated by her persistence. She broke out the curler and I took it like a sad *insert offensive thing of your choice*.

She turned me around and told me to put my glasses on and look. I stay silent for a good while, poking at my luscious super model locks or something.

"What do you think about the bangs?"
"They're a little long."
"So what, up here? It'd look bad. I didn't want to cut them."
"I guess not then. It's great. Thanks."
"Good I was hoping you didn't want them cut it'd look bad."

I was shoved out of the chair onto the floor of the battle scene of botched hair and ushered to the counter. $80 later and lots of forced compliments from people who wanted tips and I was out the door.

After the shock to the life that was just sucked out of my wallet wore off I spent the next hour primping in the mirror like a little girl. I'm sure on the way home that day my hair blinded someone.

Meme generator because I'm a lazy ass.

All in all I loved it. She did a great job on my hair despite my high horse stubbornness that I wanted the style I said (because I am an expert on hair stuffs after all). The atmosphere was great and so was the music. I'm sure that her refusal to cut my hair into obscure ways was her genuinely caring about my hair and how I look to others. Progressive Salon is a great place. Your money will not be wasted.

I'd go back but they probably don't want me to.