Don't Let The Name "MASTERcuts" Fool You!

I am an emotional haircutter. If I'm feeling a little down at work, and there's no chocolate handy, I will obsess about having my tresses lopped. This symptom usually follows a particularly rough morning of battling my straight near the crown, wavy near the bottom, frizzy, not curly enough to be attractive brown hair. I'm also graying. Now that my face is sagging and showing the wear and tear of middle age and a little chubby, it's extremely important to have good hair when going out in public. My hair and my lips are about all I have going for me these days.

So, one day I was having these symptoms (oh, I need to add that I had not decided on one hairdresser in 14 years. When I lived in Florida, I had a fabulously talented lady named Roma who cut my hair. It's hard to choose a new stylist). I studied the yellow pages and google mapped the salon locations trying to find one close to work. No luck. I had to go after work. I saw there was a Mastercuts in the mall, so I struck a trot.

When I arrived, there was a lone Hispanic lady sitting in one of the chairs. She seemed to be late middle-age. I smiled and she smiled back, asking "Can I help you?" I looked at the sign in sheet, and saw no one had signed in since about 12:15pm. I should have just looked confused, apologized, and walked away. Your first reactions sometimes are the correct ones! I requested a haircut and put my name on the little sheet.

Hispanic lady had on too much makeup, her hair wasn't right, and she barely spoke English. A good rule of thumb on hairdressers is if you don't like his or her hair, maybe you should find another...and I daresay if there is a communication breakdown, you'll never get the look you desire. It could end up being disastrous. Like my experience.

I told her what I wanted, and she seemed to understand. She sat me in the chair and did a dry cut. All the while, talking about her sister in the Peace Corp. Her sister evidently makes a lot of money in the Peace Corp as an English language teacher in some third-world country. She highly recommended me choosing this vocation. More than once. As she picked up bits of my hair and wacked at them (not the way a normal stylist would--holding the strands between two fingers and trimming them the same length as neighboring hairs--just picking tufts of hair at random), she cooed about how dry my hair was. She grabbed a spray conditioner and urged me to purchase this $16 bottle to repair my hay-like hair.

The lady asked my name. I told her. She trilled it off her tongue with the rolling R's. "Rrrrrroberrrrrrrta." She then told me her name. It was Carmelita, or Juevos, or Pilar, or Juanita Bonita Abuela Chiquita Banana or something. Well, I hit the nail on the head with the pronunciation, and her little radar antennas went up out of her head like rockets. "Ooooooooooh, you espeak such a beautiful Espanish! Say it again!" I said it again. "How you learn to espeak Espanish?!" I described two years in high school and one semester in college.

Then, she really plugged the Peace Corp. I REALLY could make some jack doing that. How does she know? Because her sister does it and she's making money hand over fist. I have such a beautiful tongue I could make lots of money, too!

She kept saying "You have esuch a beautiful tongue!!" I thought she was going to have an orgasm right there.

I was starting to get scared after about an hour of this. My Blackberry was going off as a result of my husband wondering where the heck I was. I wanted to text him back "pls come get me im bein held prisoner by lady w/sharp scissors", but she wasn't finished destroying my hair.

I had requested a cut that would make the most of my NATURAL waves, so I wouldn't have to blow it straight all the time (thereby lessening the hay effect). The goal was to put some stuff in it, scrunch it around and let it air dry." NO. She heard waves or curls or something, so after she hacked at it, she applied an 800-degree curling iron. I could see smoke coming off my hair.

Why didn't I say anything? I don't know. I'm just such a nice person I can't bear to displease a stranger (but I can be a total bitch to the people in my house). I just sat there, for about 2 hours, repeating all the Spanish words she demanded I repeat.

"Carrrrrrrrrrro."
"Carrrrrrrrrrro."

"You have esuch a beautiful tongue!"

"Pelicula. Do you know what that mean?"
"Pelicula - movie theater."

"Oooooh!"

"Say my name."
"(Whatever her name was-in exagerrated accent)"

CREEPY.

She curled my entire head of hair with a searing hot curling iron, put some hairspray in it, and asked for $25.00. I didn't feel bad about leaving a lousy tip. I had planned to write Mastercuts the next day, but I didn't get around to it. She had a State of GA license, but I really wonder about her qualifications.

The next week, I went to a salon I had visited a couple times in the past and asked her to fix it. She said there wasn't a whole lot she could do in the back, because Hispanic lady had tried to thin it out or something.

I have fully recovered, and vowed to never salon-john myself out again. I've gone back to the first hairdresser I visited when I moved to this area 7 years ago. She's still at the same place, still has the same great hair, and still gives the best haircuts I've had since Roma. Jessica at Cutting Edge in Toccoa is fabulous, and always does exactly what I ask. Even that time I asked for a pink highlight in my hair like the red one she had that time...