Today’s guest post is by Donna.
Every 6 to 8 weeks I spend close to 2 hours and a bunch of money at a beauty salon called, The Stylist. It always goes pretty much the same way.
When I arrive, Gary, my stylist, greets me with a smile and escorts me back to his station. He makes a thorough assessment of my hair by running his hands through it and asking, “How has this cut been working for you? Have you noticed any problem areas? How have you liked the color? Are you thinking you’d like to make any changes?” Then he disappears for a few minutes and reappears with a bowl of coloring solution that he masterfully applies, separating the hair into sections and sweeping the brush upward to ensure complete coverage. It feels refreshingly cool and its fumes immediately clear my sinuses and cause my eyes to water and blink enthusiastically.
All the while he engages me in fascinating conversation. We visit about his back surgery, his parents, his herbs, his new sofa, and Mike and Sassy. (One of these is his Pomeranian and one is his partner. I can never remember which is which.) He asks me about the happenings in my life and I share a couple of anecdotes about my first graders and he laughs like I’ve said something hilarious, but we both know it wasn’t that funny and that my love life is still dormant. Next he brings me a bottle of water and coffee and some magazines to help pass the time while the color processes. I drink the coffee and have a sip or two of the bottled water, but no more, because I will take the rest of it home to share with my cat. Then I read a magazine until I nod off.
When Gary returns he gently rouses me to my feet and leads me over to the sink. This is my absolute favorite part because after the rinse, he caresses my head for an entire 60 seconds, using a massage potion fused with pomegranate and pesto.
All too soon it’s time to go back to the chair for the cut, and at first I watch him very closely because if I could learn how to do this myself, I’d save so much money and I truly do need to scale back because of the pay cut I have to take next year, thanks to our governor and legislature. Then I start visualizing the kinds of punishment that await them in the afterlife, and before I know it, Gary‘s moved on to the blow dryer and I’ve forgotten all about that impractical notion.
I compliment Gary on his remarkable ability to transform my fine limp hair into a temporary voluminous mane. He responds by holding up a bottle of heat-activated spray gel that smells like strawberries – apparently he applied some during my sadistic daydream – and hands me a ten percent-off coupon for any product in the store this week only! Then he says what he always says, “This color looks fabulous on you! I am so glad we let your hair grow longer!” And I say what I always say, “You’re the master!”
Then I go up to the counter and pay my bill and leave Gary a liberal tip. It may or may not surprise you to learn that I also splurge on the strawberry styling product. I do this not because I think it will actually give me salon results at home, but because it smells sooo good and because my pay cut won’t go into effect for three months yet.
How do you justify luxuries that are totally worth it?