A Pretty Perspective

This time last year, I wrote a post on Instagram that seemed to resonate with people.

It was about a lady in a beauty salon. A lady who walked in a few moments after my appointment had begun. She was tall and elegant and wearing a beautiful linen dress, and she reminded me so much of my mum.

I watched this lady as she sunk into the chair beside me, with what looked like the weight of the world on her shoulders. And as I watched, without a word spoken, the women in the salon quietly got to work. Nail colours were presented, tea was brought, and the treatments began. And not one word was exchanged. They knew her so well. I was fascinated.

As the minutes ticked by, something magical started to unfold. The lady began to visibly relax, her shoulders dropped a little, she sipped her tea slowly, she flipped through a magazine, and at the end of the appointment, she smiled a little as she picked up her bag. Her shoulders back, her chin held high. The weight a little lighter, the load now a little more bearable.

She reminded me that the beauty of a beauty routine is something that can never be underestimated. The magic of little rituals, and the things we do to hold ourselves - not just in times of crisis, but every day. The things we do that put us back on the right track, in the right frame of mind, that restore the balance, that make us think ‘yes, I’ve got this.’

Like her, I have leaned on little rituals many times throughout my life, and they never fail to perk me up, to clear my mind, to get me back on my feet.

Until last week, that is.

It’s a big thing, I think, getting your hair done in a new place. In a new country. But I was ready. The salons had recently reopened. I really needed a little me time, a little headspace (and my roots were desperate).

Months had passed since my last visit to my beloved hairdresser back in Dublin, and as we both knew I wouldn’t be back to see her any time soon, she equipped me with a card; the right colours detailed, the right formula explained, a guide to my colour. A guide to me.

I made an appointment at a place that had come highly recommended in some community Facebook Groups. And after five minutes in the salon, I knew I had made a terrible mistake.

I watched, with a different kind of fascination, as commands were shouted at employees across the salon, as other customers entered the salon and were either ignored or barked at. The barking was soon directed at me, as the colourist dismissed the colour I wanted, implied that my hairdresser at home had been using the wrong colour for years, and then gestured with a sharp wave of her arm to ‘sit’. She was not interested in my guide. Or me, for that matter.

So I did what I was told. And I sat. And I thought about the lady in the salon who sat beside me last year. I realised as I glanced at myself in the mirror, that I had the same look on my face as she had when she walked in. I looked sad, and tired like I needed to take a weight off. But it wasn’t going to happen here.

One hour turned into two, and then three. The colourist pulled my hair so hard when she was washing out the hair dye that I started to cry. I messaged a friend to tell her I thought I was losing it. Crying in a salon while they washed my hair. A new experience.

I picked up my bag when the appointment ended, and walked out of the salon. What a waste of time, I thought. I felt even worse than before.

My husband was outside to collect me. How did it go, he said. Well, I responded, let’s just say I won’t be going back any time soon. Ah, he said.

When we got home, I went upstairs to put away my things. I sat on the bed for a moment, feeling deflated, and examined my hair. And then my phone started to ring. It was my mum, on Face Time. ‘Just calling for a chat, love’ she said.

As I told her about my near-death experienced in the hair salon, my son appeared and presented me with some chocolate, and threw one arm around my neck. My husband was a few steps behind him with my kindle and a cup of tea. He placed them on the bedside table and winked at me. And then they went back downstairs.

This all happened in the space of about 30 seconds. And not one word was spoken. Because they know me so well.

I smiled to myself and felt my shoulders relax. I picked up my tea and sipped it slowly, and continued chatting with my mum.

It turns out I didn’t really need to go to the hair salon this time. I just needed a little bit of me-time at home, and a little space to re-balance (although my roots do look a lot better).

Simone Gannon, July 2020.

Read Simone’s story of her recent move to Saudi Arabia here and tell us what you think in the comments box below.