Skip to main content

Firing the Colorist...

Probably not the most PC thing to be saying during this economic time, but I am firing my colorist. And while I'm at it I'm adding The Rabbit's hair cutter and the nail salon down the street. Before you launch into an entire Manhattan Mama is a snob routine, let me add that the nail salon charges $6 for a manicure — I am not talking about expensive beauty routines here.

But this is the deal — I am frankly tired of paying for bad work. And worst of all? I am seriously tired of having to either A) not say anything about the bad work or B) say something and sound like a, well, hideous Manhattan snob.

What has brought this on? Three truly annoying encounters in 5 days.

1. The woman who adds some color to my hair. I get lowlights added once in awhile (brunette hair)— and as my grays have started to come in, this means some coverage. For the past year she's been encouraging me to keep the grey. Encouraging is the wrong word. Badgering is the right word actually. Telling me I won't look natural. Without grey. Because in that elder statesman point of my 30s, I should be displaying that crown of silver proudly. So, then, I feel I should ask her: WHY AM I PAYING YOU???? Then after last week's encounter again which also included a push for the salon products I've decided I'm done with her.

2. The Rabbit's hair dresser. I am not the best mama for upkeeps and the last time she got her haircut we were all wearing shorts and complaining about the heat. Yes, it's been about 9 months. So given that time stretch, when we went in I had two points — keep it slightly long, but still cut off serious hanks. And I SHOWED HIM how much. WITH MY HANDS. What happened? 6 minutes later? She's done. And as I'm frowning, because really, what should I do -- He tells me I'm wrong. And I can't see that much on the ground because her hair is the same color as the floor. So I say nothing to him. But guess what? He's a goner too.

3. Walk over (now frustrated) to the nail salon. The Rabbit goes first (a winter vacation treat — she's been promised this for a month). Then it's my turn. All I ask? Please don't cut my cuticles. I'm actually chatting with a teacher at her school and monitoring The Rabbit's nail drying when I turn around and see nail polish all over my fingers. All over the barely pushed back cuticles. She's flattened them instead and then painted nail polish ON TOP OF THE CUTICLES. Now, I've had it and I say, "Oh. You're going to clean that part up right?" And she says: "YOU told me don't cut the cuticles. You want me to cut the cuticles now? Fine." And I say, "NO. I just want them pushed back. Like I do every time." "And she says, "No. It has to be cut." Now I'm just mad. JUST MAD. And I say, "Forget it. Just take off the nail polish. I'll do it at home."

And we leave.

So here's my question — am I wrong? Am I the one who is nuts? Or is it okay to feel that when you pay for a service, it be done as you've requested?

Ugh. I'm turning into a (s)mother.

Comments

Anonymous said…
You can do your own nails - Sally hansen Cuticle Cream and a slight filing everyday = perfect nails. Cut the colour. Hairdressing for The Rabbit - do it yourself = kinder & more fun. Your hairdresser - find another who listens. You're paying. This all sounds like bad service. In a recession/depression? On the other hand, because of the recession/depression, embrace the grey and invest in ribbons to tie back. You and The Rabbit can share/co-ordinate.
beta mum said…
Well i don't have a rabbit (or are you using the word as a euphemism for something else? I can't believe you'd really take a rabbit to a nail bar) and I've never had my nails done.
But I do have to fight not to emerge from the hairdresser's with platinum blond hair.

I just ask for a few highlights to perk me up until the summer sun does its work for free. But I always get - "It would take a lighter colour you know."
Yeah, but then I'd be condemned to regular roots visits and equally regular bills of £70 a time.

So yeah - they do what you ask or they get the chop. That's my view too - I thought Americans were so much better at insisting on good service than us mealy-mouthed Brits?
Shelly said…
I don't think you're wrong. It's taken me ten years to find a manicurist who actually is passionate about the product and the services provided (and can you believe this - it's a man!). I've gone to him three times now and he's worth his weight in gold.

You have every right to demand not to have your cuticles cut (they're yours after all). Ryan (my manicurist) knows now that I only want them cut if necessary for the health of the nails and my skin. Otherwise he simply pushes them back. He's never cut me. He's always very respectful and doesn't demand I do anything, simply offers suggestions (the most recent one was that because I was feeling the winter blahs from missing my home state of Florida and all the sun, that a peppermint pedicure might help lift my spirits. He was SO right - I feel like a little princess with my pretty toes!) and educates me along the way.

So in short, you fully deserve high quality service. Keep doing what you're doing and don't feel bad about it - life is too short, so do what you feel is best!
Some very kind person over in this neck of the woods has added me to the blogroll - I shall reciprocate of course [if I can remember how to do it - I haven't anyone for ages].

I suppose my method of using an angle-grinder and oo grade sandpaper wouldn't help your situation? .... no ....... thought not ....... oh well

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…

Champix

Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …