As a part of an ingenious plan to kiss the doldrums away, I went to get my hair cut the other day. You know, the whole “let’s-spoil-ourselves-rotten-to-feel-better-about-ourselves” deal that women are famous for.
So I hit Rashed’s, the salon behind the super sleek hair and the perfectly groomed bangs of a good amount of Ammanite women. Rashed spoted me as soon as I stepped into his salon, and I was immediately sucked into the ball game of the Beautifier himself.
He greeted with the usual equivalent of “hey, honey” in Arabic- “Hala Hayateh!!!” (Yes, Hayateh, not 7ayati, hayateh! HAYATEH! The Lebanese way in the middle of Jordan! It’s as if Article 13 of the Jordanian Union of Hairdresser’s Terms states, “Thou shalt speak, look, and act like the gay hairdresser in Nancy Ajram’s ‘Yeeeeeeeeey’ video.”) After the greetings, I was ushered through the usual process of hair washing, hair cutting, and hair drying, my only demand being “change”.
And change it was, I left the salon with a fountain-like hairdo after a very unsuccessful curling attempt and too much hairspray.
As soon as I got home- hoping to look remotely normal again- I washed the shitload of hairspray off, dried my hair, and gazed at Rashed’s unstyled, unhairsprayed, and unwaxed creation- Behold, Oh, People of Adam, Roba has a mullet.
Yes, a goddamn mullet! It’s as if the Beautifier is keeping me in check with my lifetime plan to always look as crusty and unkempt as the next guy.
But seriously, a mullet? Why couldn’t he have given me a Mohawk instead? After all, I always wanted a Mohawk.
Next hair post, I’m going to be singing “I shaved my head once, nanana!”