Some women are so young that it is embarrassing to look at them - you want to close your eyes. They are called "old girls". They are not always old, but they are always not girls for a long time, because the maiden age is short and limited to early youth. Recently on Fashion Sentence, a 44-year-old woman with long colored Afro braids and early 2000s teenager style was transformed. The heroine is a hairdresser by profession, but she moved and temporarily works as a cleaner. Why doesn't this surprise me?
In fact, it’s not even about the “Fashion Sentence”, but about people who strive to look “not like everyone else”, moreover, very assertively and defiantly. The issue with the pigtailed hairdresser brought back to my mind my own bitter experience and reminded me that many editors fashion magazines or designers dress in dull and black from head to toe, do not dye their hair and wear a clean face without cosmetics.
Olga with pigtails
This was about 10 years ago. My hairstylist unexpectedly went on maternity leave, leaving my highlights blonding on unknown women in black aprons. And the hairdresser and the regular client grow into each other! Like Monica Bellucci and John Nolle. Like Catherine Deneuve and Christophe Robin. Like Lolek and Bolek. Like Chuk and Gek. A new master and client - a new experience for both. Sometimes it's deplorable.
I went to the salon, and I was immediately redirected to Olechka. From afar and from the back, Olechka was a slender girl with a huge rose tattoo that crawled from her shoulder on her back, and long Afro-braids, which she periodically waved, and they effectively jumped and thundered. When I got closer, I saw that Olechka was a woman, plus or minus 50.
beauty demands
A moment of ageism. I don't like to go to not very young beauty specialists who received their basic education back in the USSR or the troubled era of the 90s. Many of them retain the notorious old school, denying the latest techniques and new cosmetics. Their beauty always requires sacrifice.
So a 60+ beautician once cut my face open without any anesthesia, making me look like a victim of an explosion in a glass window of a supermarket. To my silent tears that flowed down her bloodied face, she repeated: “And how are you going to give birth ?!”
I immediately showed Olga a photo of how I should be cut and dyed, describing in detail all the subtleties of what should be on my head. She seemed a little offended by my explanations to a professional who cuts and colors a dozen heads of different colors every shift. I sat down in a chair, took off my glasses, closed my eyes and, like a young maiden on her wedding night, prepared for the inevitable.
I sat in a chair for a long time with a bunch of foil on my head, which was supposed to receive cable television, and it seemed to me that the process was delayed. Olga floridly left the delicate question about time, promising that there was no need to worry, because "it will be fire." I really felt the fire in my head. It was from L'Oreal. After all, you deserve it!
Blonde (hidden) around the corner
After sitting in the chair for about six hours and finally putting on my glasses, I was able to evaluate the result. I saw a girl in the mirror with a straight bob haircut that never suited my round face. With hair that crunched like glass wool. Without a hint of roots, which somehow reconciled the head with dark eyebrows. And sticky volume at the raised perhydrol roots, because of which it was impossible to put a hand into the hair ...
Olga was terribly proud of herself and could not restrain her inner glee. And I could hardly restrain the desire to burst into tears and, like in a movie, in hysterics, brush off all the hairdressing accessories from her workplace.
I quickly paid, flew out of the salon and trotted down the street in search of shelter. I went to the toilet of the nearest shopping center, where for fifteen minutes I sobbed into the sink under the sympathetic, puzzled looks of women who came up to wash their hands. I wanted to put my head in the toilet and press the flush button.
For 10 thousand rubles, they turned me from a young and still lovely Russian woman with overgrown highlights into a ruddy a Soviet saleswoman who tints the roots every two weeks, spreading bubbling hydroperite in a cup.
Good master, bad professional
Why did Olechka with pigtails hook me so? Perhaps I am wrong, and people should be left with their freedom of expression, but an experienced devil on the shoulder whispers that not everything is so simple. In a furious self-presentation (tattoos all over Olya, afro braids, colored hair, an image that is 30 years younger) something painful comes through. Look at me! I'm not a gray mass! I'll show you now! I'm still a yoke! I look how I want, I live how I want, I work how I want...
Such Olechkas at work are similar to Shurochka from Office Romance. They are good, but, unfortunately, active. They are bright, loud, enterprising, they are adored by some and cannot be tolerated by others. They despise social norms and boredom, so they are cramped in their accounting department, but in the end, their demonstrative "not like everything" does not allow them to build a career. And then they obediently go to work as cashiers or cleaners, just like the heroine of "Fashionable Sentence" - an overly active craftswoman with pigtails, in leggings and a mini. Like a schoolgirl in her almost 45.
And I had to grow my hair out, although I really wanted to take a typewriter and act like Jane's soldier. And since then, I go to the salon only in contact lenses to see everything that happens on my head. What is going on in Olechek's head is still inaccessible to me.
Author: woman 35+, no pigtails.
