Today I got a hair cut.

It’s the same every time: I  sit down and the hairdresser does her best to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible.

First of all, she usually looks something like this:

Usually I try not to judge, but today’s experience was especially gruesome.

The awkward forced conversation started off well enough.

First, as  they usually do, she asked me if I straightened my hair often… this was followed by a stiff, uncomfortable silence when I admitted that I didn’t.

The silence got especially heavy when I let it slip that I don’t even own a quality ($100+) straightener.

Next, she asked me which product I used. My answer is really irrelevant because no matter which one I say I am swiftly informed that my shampoo/condition/moose contains too much sodium and will therefore dry up my hair, cause it to fall out and/or probably turn me into a cat.

But conveniently, the only solution is for me to purchase the most expensive product to ensure my should-be-straightened hair can lock in enough moisture to rival Niagra Falls.

However nothing, and I mean nothing, beats the awkward attempts at conversations.

First we start off talking about my life:

Yes, I have gone to private school my whole life… Yeah, St. Teresa’s is ALL GIRL….. uhhhh I guess you could say all of the “Hotties” (as you put it) go to Rockhurst, the all boys school…. Yes, we have our own dances…. Yes, I have been to the Rockhurst dances….No, I do not have a boyfriend…Yes, I do indeed know boys and occasionally talk to them…. No, I wouldn’t say I go on a lot of “dates”…I work at Planet Sub… No, I do not wish to tell you any of the “hot gossip” in my friend group, what I am doing tonight, or the deepest darkest secrets of my soul.

Seriously! I came to get my haircut, not to find a new best friend. As much as I love getting stereo-typed as a spoiled, private school, boyfriend-less, sheltered teenager, I’d rather not “open up” to you. Pardon me for not feeling quite comfortable enough with you and the 60 year-old woman getting her hair done next to us

to talk about who I have a “crush” on.

However, this is nothing compared to when the hairdresser starts to talk about her life.

No, I do not want to hear about how you moved out of your house at 17, got an apartment with your best friend, all of the crazy parties you guys had, or how she drunk-drove your car into a median….  I’m not interested in your clubbing experiences…  I don’t really care what celebrity people say you look like… I’m not sure how to respond to your story about fighting with your mom…… and please, plleeaaaassseee don’t tell me about any of your boyfriends (current or past ones).

After  hairdressers notice that I would “prefer not to” talk about my own life, I am always amazed at how they feel the need to launch into theirs. Is their a course in beautition school called “Making your clients feel awkward: extremely personal stories”? Call me heartless, but I would rather not get shampooed while listening to you talk about your teenage eating disorder; there is a perfectly fine Ashlee Simpson song playing in your salon right now, can’t we just enjoy it in silence?

The worst part is that the hairdressers expect you to think that they are cool after all of their stories. That you can only hope your life will turn out as exciting as theirs undoubtably is. However, they assure me that I  “shouldn’t be too jealous” of them because once I am an adult clubbing will get really old after a while.

Thank you. I was really starting to envy your life.

I wish I could sit down in the chair and say, “I just want a trim, no layers, and please no small talk and/or soul searching.”