April Winchell

Ok, I should have expected this. I have no one to blame but myself, because I insist on getting my hair done at Fred Segal.

I know, I know. But let me say something in my defense. The guy who does my hair is amazing. I’ve never liked anyone’s work as much as D. J.’s. And when I first started going there 11 years ago, it was not the asshole mecca it is today. Hell, T-shirts were only $750 back then! It was like fucking Mayberry!

But it’s a different story now. The place is crawling with goofballs. I usually manage to avoid them, since I keep to myself and only go there to get my hair done. I won’t even get a cup of coffee there, for fear I might run into Ashton Kutcher getting his mesh trucker hats customized.

So today it’s especially busy in the salon, and D.J. is working on a few clients at once. I’m sitting quietly with a quart of dye on my head, reading all about how Pierce Brosnan’s wife has over 200 silk sarongs, when this idiot girl stumbles in and sits in the chair next to mine.

Immediately, I knew it was going to be bad. I sensed it from the embroidered, bejeweled camouflage pants I could see out of the corner of my eye. Anything with shit sewn all over it is a red flag, as far as I’m concerned. Beads, sequins, sea shells, buttons, Lucky Charms, I don’t care. It’s the kind of generic “edge” embraced by the uber-clueless.

So Braniac Jr. sits down and proceeds to attempt to explain what she wants done to her hair today. It went a little something like this:

“Ummm, okay, so . . . ummmm, okay. You know how, you know like when I dye my hair? Like the day after, you know how . . . okay. So umm, like, remember when Jessica Simpson went like really short, with like bangs and umm, well, I want that — not this time, but like maybe the next time — but not this time. This time, ummmm, like . . . okay, like maybe some lighter hair in the front, in the bangs, but like ‘Honey’, you know? Not stripey, because ick, I so hate that, but like, not chunky but like, just like you know, like Honey? Like brushed in sort of?

Oh! And you know that shampoo I bought last time? Like, how do you say that? Like ‘Keratase” or something? Yeah, so like, I bought it, and I like just got back from Miami? And I so left it in the hotel room, and I was like, ‘Oh My God, I cannot believe that I like, so left that in the room!’ So I call the hotel, and I’m like, ‘Oh My God, I so left these two bottles of shampoo and conditioner in the room’, and they’re like, ‘So? It’s shampoo.’ And I’m like, ‘No, no you do not understand’, because I only used them like, 5 times, and I’m like, ‘You HAVE to go get them! I will come back to Miami to get those!’”

And at this point, I stood up and threw my chair through the window.

Who can talk about their hair for 15 minutes? I can talk about anything for almost any amount of time, and I can’t imagine that. Who cares about your bangs and your shampoo and your trip to Miami? Fuck you!

I guess I didn’t realize up until that moment what a horrible job it must be working in that salon. I had always thought it was sort of cliquey and cool, and all the stylists are bisexual and having sex with each other and doing Ecstasy and having parties. I don’t know. But today I realized that the dumbest people in California must come in there, and they have to deal with them. Not just the Paris Hiltons of the world, but the people who aspire to be Paris Hilton. That’s terrifying.

All those Pilates loving dimwits with their “Think Green” bumperstickers on their Hummers, clutching pictures of Keira Knightley’s highlights in one hand and a green tea soy chai boba latte in the other, smoking Marlboro Lights and chattering like gibbons on their gem-encrusted bluetooth headsets while waving their french manicures dry and giving the guy in the crosswalk the finger for not moving fast enough.

I tipped a little extra today. It was the least I could do.

Links

I have a couple of good links for you today.