Going to the hair and beauty salon can leave me feeling rather confusedly ambivalent; on the one hand, there are very few, correction, do not want to be too hyperbolic here, few relaxing sensations I enjoy more than having my hair wash, cut, and styled by someone else, while on the other hand, my stylist, who I have now frequented for almost two years, expects a certain level of mundane, inane social banter during the entire process. She is a sweet girl, about my age, and does an amazing job, but I would much prefer sitting in silence, focusing on massaging fingers in my scalp and the swift motions of snapping scissors pruning dead-ends, however, I have found it increasingly difficult with each passing visit to make this desire, and right as a client, known. For the most part, conversation includes generalizations of my day to day job, but more predominantly, the intricacies of my romantic life, which until recently, was a textbook case of lackluster moments, testosterone-coursing physiques, and utter egocentricity encased in clouds of too much wine and one too many martinis. At least, with my current, rare, and pleasantly surprising situation of romantic bliss, during my last salon visit I had someone to girlishly gush about and successfully avoided easily forgettable monotony of office life.
The other awkward encounter with salon staff inevitably and invariably occurs as I pay for my cut and dry, at the counter: my stylist reviews the laundry list of expensive, aromatic products she has used in my hair that day to further tame my already fairly lax and easy going long coiffure. I have always been exceedingly low maintenance when it comes to my hair; I have never colored or highlighted for I adore the natural hue, which is one of the few and absolutely precious self-image perceptions of perfection, something I would ascertain few women have and can actually hold, and until very recently, around the commencement of my foray into the professional arena, blow dryers and frequently hair brushes were foreign entities. Honestly, now, all I need is a good cut and style, which I receive every six weeks or so. Nonetheless, despite my staunch belief in minimalist hair care, I, like all clients, are pulled into the vortex of sales and consumerism, products thrust upon us as though they were required sustenance, or glorious treasures only fools would ignore.
My last salon visit, I finally succumbed and purchased one of these items: the Oribe Royal Blowout Styling Spray. At around 35$ for a large bottle, it is not overly decadent and opulent, but it is not cheap either, however, the money has proven well worth it. A few sprays each morning following my shower into wet hair and then I blow dry on high heat, generally my head between my legs, no round brush, no real styling technique or effort. Even if I had the necessary technique or the time to exert more energy, it would not be needed; something about this spray, coupled with proper cut upkeep, gives me a pseudo-professionally styled look each and every morning. Finally, and on a rather minor subsequent note, the Oribe bottle is a sleek, stream-lined onyx, and adds a bit of decorative flair to the bathroom sink area.
(image taken from Allure)