I step into the salon, the air is thick with patchouli scented oils, masking any hints of burnt-hair smell. It’s the sort of place where well-heeled clients complain about their partners staying too late at the office, all the while flicking through Vogue or Architectural Digest with manicured nails.
My tall, brunette hairdresser takes her time with my consultation and hair wash. “Wow, this is incredible,” she bellows; grabbing clumps of hair, then letting it drop to my shoulders.
I feel like a spectacle. I know what’s to come.
I sit twiddling my thumbs as the hairdresser’s amazement turns into panic during the blow dry. She thrusts an apprentice extra tools to start working on the other side of my skull. I feel like a busted miniature show pony as both women grab at my mane. A far cry from the gentle experience the mousy-haired customer is receiving to my left. The appointment quickly descends into an ugly mix of panic and aggression. My hairdresser calls out to the unbothered client who is drinking aniseed tea, “Sorry, we’ve had unforeseen delays but I’ll be with you soon.”
My hairdresser calls out to the unbothered client who is drinking aniseed tea, “Sorry, we’ve had unforeseen delays but I’ll be with you soon.”
I find myself apologising for my hair to diffuse the tension. “Next time, tell us about your hair before you come in. We’ve already made a note on your file,” my hairdresser replies.
I speculate on what my ‘note’ says: “Beware of this woman. She has gorilla hair and it’s a big hassle.”
My hair bloodline runs thick, dense, brown and curly. My mother never let me straighten my hair as a child. “I don’t want you maturing too fast,” she would tut at me. In reality, she was avoiding the painstaking process of clamping a straightener on each piece over and over.
In my adult life, hairdressers haven’t been so delicate in their reluctance to ‘deal’ with my hair. They strike me with the “textured hair tax”. I’ve always been charged extra for haircuts.
In my adult life, hairdressers haven’t been so delicate in their reluctance to ‘deal’ with my hair.
Back at the salon, my appointment is over and I spot my hairdresser talking to the owner near the counter. I know what's about to happen. I’ve seen that look before.
“We are going to charge you an extra 20 dollars on top of the normal price because of the effort it took to do your hair.” It was so matter-of-fact. I felt so small.
They were expecting a normal customer to come in - with ‘normal’ eurocentric hair. When I showed up with something different I was ‘othered’, made to feel uncomfortable, a burden and was overcharged as a result.
I’m a polite customer, overly so. I didn’t dispute the extra charge, I really felt it was a deserved cost until I went home and cried.
It’s not like I can control the amount of hair on my head. Unfortunately I can’t stare at the follicles on my head and will them to stop growing. I spare a thought for Black women with hair far more coiled than mine - how difficult their salon experiences must be.
During the height of the Black Lives Matter movement, a hairdresser I met said her local salon was trying to market towards POC. This lip-service level diversity was frustrating to me. Hairdressers should also learn the skills to make diverse clients feel beautiful. Why should people pay top dollar for a service not designed for them?
Hairdressers should also learn the skills to make diverse clients feel beautiful. Why should people pay top dollar for a service not designed for them?
Good experiences are hard to come by, but when it does, the difference is stark. Recently, I went to a walk-in salon in a shopping centre. My hairdresser was a fair-skinned, blonde, British woman on her work visa. She pulled my hair out of its bun and seemed unbothered as locks unravelled around my face. She washed my hair and began blowdrying it with incredible tenacity.
“This is really easy for me, I worked in a hair salon for Black women,” she explained, “I’m used to working with textures much thicker than yours.”
My hair had never felt so light and silky and I was charged the rate as advertised. I still daydream about that girl. How comfortable she made me feel. How normal.
I shouldn’t be told by relatives to travel to ‘ethnic’ suburbs where women know how to deal with my hair. I want the fancy neck massage and essential oils minus the note about my difficult hair.
