The revolving door at my hair salon appears to have slowed down a bit, meaning I’ve actually had the same stylist for over a year now. And I truly love this lady. Not only does she “give good hair”, but she treats me like royalty. Anyone who reads this blog consistently knows how often I gripe about customer service in this country. That my hairdresser is originally from Macedonia only serves to emphasize the point.
If my appointment is at the end of my work day, she always washes my hair for free even though that option is typically charged for in Swedish salons. And because she cuts it every six weeks or so, I don’t have to give her very much in the way of instructions for what I’d like her to do. After all, there are only so many ways to say, “very short on the sides, a little longer on top and be sure to leave enough length in the back to cover that unsightly mole on my neck,” especially in Swedish, which is our only common language. She insists she loves to hear me speak English even though she understands very little of what I say. But my Macadonian is even worse (read: non-existent), to the point that I can barely pronounce her name correctly.
Because I trust her and I like to try keep the job interesting for her, she pretty much does whatever she wants with the cut. And even though she knows I’m very much a wash & go kind of gal, she always takes the time to dry and style it afterwards. To her credit, my hair never looks better than when I leave the shop, but it’s pretty much guaranteed that I will never be able to duplicate the look because I don’t have the patience or the products.