I lie when visiting the hairdresser
by Danielle Hunt
There I am staring at myself in a mirror covered in some kind of 1984ish uniform, talking to a voice from behind, alongside others, who refuse to look my way. Do you want me to trim the layers? Depending on the answer I choose, will my social status change? Am I destitute for poverty and uneven bangs? Which way do you part your hair? Is this a personality test? If I part it to the left, does that mean I prefer exercise over watching documentaries? If I part it in the middle, does that mean I'm into pot and illegal automobile accessories? Would you like a flatiron or a blow-out? I must examine myself. Do I belong to the blow-outs or the flat-irons? Am I made of iron or wind? Am I flat or containing body? Have you ever tried our silk-protein frizzcalming fly-away-defeating serum? Does it come in two color choices? Should I have received a message about what color to choose ten years prior to this engagement? Will this be cash or credit? I look back at the others. There they are, lined up like vegetables, spilling their guts.
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