Rage against the beauty machine.

Some women walk out of a salon looking and feeling beautiful.

I am not one of those women. I blame it on having curly hair, but have never, ever walked out of a haircut looking like Normal Andrea. This is the closest I've come. (I also came in second at the local Farah Fawcett competition. Thank you, thank you.)

This is how I normally leave a salon. Glossy-straight-hair Andrea. Passable, but not me.

Once I left a salon as What-was-the-point-of-that-in-all-this-rain Andrea.

Despite all that, the cuts themselves are generally good and I look forward to my salon experience. It's an hour where I can read a magazine and not get my kids juice. I don't go for manis or pedis or other womanly maintenance rituals, so feel a nice haircut is a justifiable indulgence.

Let me take you back to North London for a moment... My previous stylist was the lovely Paola; she greeted me warmly with coffee in the AM and a glass of wine in the PM. She shampooed with care and addressed my curls with knowledgeable concern. She was Italian, cool, and let me quietly read a magazine or chat with friends while she was worked away. There was a lot of primping and adjusting before she was prepared to let me leave. She was my ideal stylist.

Unfortunately the lovely Paola does not live in Denver. Today's experience has left me jaded, flat and angry at the suburbs. I went for an Aveda salon where I had certain expectations. They were not met. The standard scalp massage was lackluster, the wash water was cold, no conditioner was used, and the actual cut took a paltry 15 minutes. There was no primping to make sure the sides were even and no final fussing over a misplaced curl. 

I LEFT WITH WET HAIR.

My hair and I are raging.