The Bad Hair Day
I’ll call her Keri, and she was a relative newcomer to our exercise class in the park.
“Hello, Keri,” I greeted her, not especially remarkably, as I unrolled my exercise mat at the truly appalling hour of five to eight in the morning.
Photo by George Pagan III on Unsplash
“You know,” she said, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” I said politely, hoping that the topic would not be complicated: aside from inventing fresh terms of invective to hurl at our trainer, my brain really doesn’t kick into useful gear much before 11.00.
“You see, I used to be a hairdresser,” she began.
“Oh,” I said, my heart beginning to sink ever so slightly.
“So I know something about hair,” she explained.
“I suppose you would,” I agreed, not liking the look of where this was going at all.
“And believe it or not,” she said, “I used to have difficult hair myself. It was dry and frizzy and I just couldn’t do anything with it.”
I had not until then had cause to examine Keri’s hair. But now that I did, I saw that it was relentlessly yellow and ramrod straight, with each strand falling to alarmed attention like soldiers called to parade by a particularly aggressive Sergeant Major. As hairstyles go, it would not have been my personal choice; but then my general policy on other people’s hair, unless it is actually standing up and blowing poison darts at me, is to live and let live.
“It was plain old ugly,” she said. She nodded at me confidently. “Well,” she added. “I don’t have to tell you about that, do I?”
With my exercise mat barely on the floor, I found myself struggling for a response. I am aware that my opinion here might be a niche one, but I actually quite like my hair. It’s true that it never looks particularly tidy; but then, neither do I. It’s true that it will insist on standing up where it should be lying down, and sticking out where it should be waving smoothly; but as an unruly woman myself, I can’t help but admire its independence of spirit. More to the point, it’s my hair, the hair that has surrounded my face ever since I have had a face to surround; and I tend to suppose that most people would assume that if I didn’t like it the way it is, I’d have found a way, here in this city where every second person is a celebrity wannabe and every third person their beautician, to have changed it.
“Then I found this product that works wonders,” she said. “You really need to know about it, it’s called Gleem, that’s with two ‘e’s, OK?, you can find it in the beauty supply store, you apply it after you’ve shampooed, and ...”
“Thank you, Keri,” I said, politely. And, feeling we had satisfactorily exhausted the topic, “This is a tough class isn’t it? Did you feel as sore as I did yesterd…”
“… it works right away,” she continued. “It’s really amazing, especially for difficult hair like yours. It ...”
“Thank you, Keri,” I repeated, my pleasant tone beginning to fray just a little at the edges.
“... adds all the moisture you’re lacking,” said Keri, “ and it smoothes out that ugly disgusting frizz: believe me, it really makes a ...”
I do not come to my exercise class in order to engage in arguments; but I was beginning to feel that a firm hand was starting to be called for here.
“You know, Keri,” I said. “I really don’t like being given advice about my hair unless I’ve asked for it.”
“ ... difference,” said Keri. “It’s so important with difficult hair to use the right product, and particularly in your case ...”
It was time, I felt, to employ transparency.
“Actually, Keri,” I said, “ I’m finding this conversation quite offensive.”
There was a pause while Keri blinked a little in surprise.
“You see, I’m just telling you this to help you,” she explained, then. “Because, as I said, I do know about hair. And if you find the right product, even the very worst hair … ”
“You know, Keri,” I said, maintaining, I thought, a frankly impressive civility of tone, “I cannot believe that I am having to spell out to you that I am finding this conversation offensive.”
There was another pause as Keri pondered the scale of my folly.
“OK,” she shrugged, then, cheerfully, as we all prepared to assume the cat and cow.
Except that it wasn’t OK. You must never, ever tell my trainer this, but my morning exercise class is my happy place. It is where I go to work out my body while making silly jokes with people who make me laugh, to return virtuously exerted and luxuriate in a refreshing shower and a chocolate-covered peanut butter cup (you might want not to tell my trainer about the peanut butter cup, either). It is not – as, on reflection, few places are – where I go to receive unsolicited advice on how I can improve my hair.
“I need to talk to you, Keri,” I said, falling into discreet step with her in the parking lot after the class. “I have to tell you that what you said to me before class really didn’t make me feel good. I come here to feel better, but after what you said, I’m now thinking that people are looking at my hair and thinking it’s ugly, and that hurts my feelings.”
Keri stopped dead, and turned her magisterially coiffed head to look directly into my eyes.
“You know,” she said, “this happens to me all the time. People are always telling me how I can do better.”
Ah, I thought, so she, too, know how it felt.
“Well, there you are,” I said.
“And do you know something?” she continued then. “I love it!”
There was a soft thud as my jaw hit the asphalt.
“Wow,” was the sole response I could access after I had retrieved it.
Keri preened just a little.
“I do,” she assured me. “Really, I love it. Because that’s how I learn things – by listening to other people. It’s really helpful to me.”
I could think of no further comment to improve on my original
“Wow,” I repeated.
Keri nodded, impressively.
“You’d be amazed,” she said, “at the things I’ve learned from what other people tell me. I think of it all as feedback, and it really helps me to grow.”
It was becoming apparent that what we had here was a failure to communicate.
“You see,” I explained, “I don’t mean Wow as in Wow. I mean Wow, as in, I’ve just told you that ... and you’re not even going to ... and I feel … and you say … Wow.”
It was becoming further apparent that the communicational deficiency lay on both sides of the conversation.
“I listen to what other people tell me,” Keri repeated, patiently. “I learn from it, and I grow from it. It’s a really useful tool.”
I at last located my vocal chords.
“Well, maybe that works for you,” I said. “But it doesn’t work for a lot of people, and it doesn’t work for me. And I have to tell you that I found what you said to me about my hair offensive and hurtful.”
It was a sunny California summer morning; nevertheless, ice shards arose to engulf our small corner of the parking lot as Keri at last processed this latest piece of feedback.
She did not, it appeared, intend to learn from it.
“Right,” she snapped, furious with my ill manners. “OK. Got it.”
She turned on her heel, slammed herself into her car and gunned the engine. As she reversed, she leaned her gleaming-haired head out of the window.
“You need to broaden your mind!” she shouted at me before roaring off Oceanwards, never to be seen at the class again.
I have apologized to our trainer for costing him a client, but he didn’t seem to mind too much.