Located in the vibrant heart of downtown Living Room, My Daughter’s Hair Salon is a small, female-owned business that recently opened 20 minutes ago. The owner’s name is “Stacy,” spelled with just a “y.” Wait. No, yeah. Not “ey.”
Although I wasn’t looking to get my hair done, the salon’s convenient location and “Stacy’s” rather persistent attitude convinced me otherwise. As it turns out, I was lucky she was even able to squeeze me in.
“Everyone wants to look nice after the holidays so I’ve been SO busy,” “Stacy” told me as she assessed my admittedly neglected locks. “I’ve had 50 clients so far. You’re my 51st client today.”
“Wow,” I responded. “You must be really tired.”
“Oh, I am. Especially because I also have all my kids.”
At only the young age of 6, “Stacy” already has 10 children. Five boys and five girls. In fact, just that morning she gave birth, she told me, much to my astonishment.
“Wow,” I responded again. “Should you even be working?”
It’s alright, she said. Her husband is taking care of the baby now and all the other 10 children.
“How do you do it all?” I asked her, as she enthusiastically attacked my curls.
“I honestly don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s very loud at my house.”
As she continued to brush my hair, only getting the brush stuck twice, I asked “Stacy”…
Wait, it is “ey” on second thought…
…I asked “Stacey” where she learned hair styling. She studied in high school AND college, she informed me before, ever the professional, switching the subject back to my hair.
“Do you normally have curly hair?”
“Yes.”
“It’s really tangled.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m gonna straighten it.”
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
“OK, well, then look through this magazine and let me know what hairstyle you want,” she said, handing me a Fancy Nancy book.
“Um…how about this one?” I said, pointing to a random illustration.
“I call that one The Teasey.”
“Perfect.”
“Except I think I’m just going to straighten your hair.”
The straightening process at My Daughter’s Hair Salon consists of vigorous brush work and an arsenal of rather pointy hair accessories. If there is one thing you can say about “Stacey” it’s that she is highly dedicated to the ideal of “beauty is pain.” At one point, I winced and let out a little cry.
“Does that hurt?” “Stacey” asked me with something approaching a hint of possible sympathy.
“Oh, just a wee bit,” I answered as I looked for my chunk of missing scalp on the floor.
Luckily, like many of the best in the business, “Stacey” has mastered the art of Client Small Talk as a means of distraction.
“So, how about you? You got kids?” she asked as she shoved a bobby pin deep into my cerebral cortex.
“I do,” I grunted. “A boy and a girl.”
“The girl sounds lovely.”
“She is.”
“She sounds really smart and pretty too.”
“She’s definitely strong!” I screamed as another bobby pin pushed into a hopefully not vital section of my brain.
“Hang on, I’m working really hard, I need a sip of my coffee,” she said, pausing to pick up her mug as I sobbed in relief.
“Absolutely. Take your time,” I replied while wiping blood out of my eyes.
“It’s definitely coffee in here. Not water.”
“I definitely believe you.”
During her coffee break, she confided to me that she was going on vacation to Florida soon. In fact, right after my appointment.
“What will you do in Florida?” I asked.
“Oh, all the Florida things,” Stacey answered. “Although my husband won’t let me go back to Johnny’s Store *whispers* it’s a pizza place because they put sauce on his pizza but I love the place but he was like we are NEVER coming back even though I love their pizza with mushroom *whispers* pretend I like mushrooms and last time I was in Florida I went to a salon and they messed up my hair like it wasn’t even in the magazine and I was like no way, never again.”
Fortunately, “Stacey” could never be accused of messing up someone’s hair. At least not while she has three more dozen weaponized bobby pins within arm’s reach. Her professionalism was rivaled only by her freakishly strong upper body strength.
I was a bit surprised (albeit relieved), however, when she told me halfway through that she had to stop and finish my hair the next day.
“Wait, what?” I asked, confused.
“Yeah. My brother is playing on his tablet and now I want to play on mine,” she told me cheerily before scampering off. But she only charged me fifty-two-hundred-eleven, which I was informed was quite the deal.
So all in all, I would rate My Daughter’s Hair Salon 13/10. Highly recommend.
Although that could be the brain damage talking.
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