Sitting in the hair salon chair stewing in my hair dye, this is what I observed:
Woman with long blond hair walks into the salon and up to the counter with a cell phone to her ear. A stylist, we’ll call her Sue, greets woman and engages in conversation to confirm appointment. Me thinks it a bit rude that woman does not hang up phone while talking to Sue. Silly me.
Sue guides woman to styling chair to discuss what will be done today; woman explains she just needs a blowout, so Sue leads her to hair washing station. Phone still at woman’s ear. Sue proceeds to wash and condition woman’s hair; phone never gets moved away from ear. Side note: this is a safety hazard; do not try this at home.
At this point I am intrigued, and feeling a bit miffed for the Sue’s sake. But thinking who knows what the hell is appropriate with cell phones these days I ask my stylist, Michelle: Is the woman on her cell phone while she is getting her hair washed? Yes. Is that normal? No, but this woman does it all the time.
Now I’m feeling 1) relieved that the zombie apocalypse isn’t occurring while I’m sitting in a mall with tin foil in my hair, 2) self-righteous that I was correct the phone woman is behaving in a manner unbecoming to the people who takes scissors to her hair, 3) still intrigued that a human can talk on the phone while getting her hairs did, and 4) curious about the conversation itself. I eavesdrop to hear if she is trying to walk someone through brain surgery over the phone or maybe is speaking with a world leader (not to be confused with a world citizen). Then I realize that if the conversation were truly important, she would not be having it in a hair salon.
Suddenly all I am feeling is indignant for the stylist who is forced to deal with this self-consumed cell phone addict. It takes all the power in me not to yell, thinking if I yell in support of someone else (Sue), does it still qualify as trying to teach a pig to sing? My total bad ass husband (PTST) often reminds me, when I am tempted to scream at someone for their idiocy, if an adult thinks it’s a good idea to let his six-year-old drive a golf cart, then yelling about it will not change his mind. So I am learning to temper my tirades. But on the flip side, as we used to tell Molly, ‘’I know you don’t give a rat’s ass about what I am saying, but it makes me feel better to yell.’’
In the end, I sit in my salon chair shooting invisible poison darts out of my eyeballs at the woman because I am a giant pussy. She gets her blow out completed, pays up, and walks out without ever breaking stride in her cell conversation, never having the slightest inkling that everyone she leaves behind in the salon, not to mention the person on the other end of her conversation, absolutely positively hates her with the fire of a thousand suns.