The Full Treatment
You've probably never noticed, but we hairdressers are shrinks, marriage counselors, alcohol counselors, grief counselors, feminist therapists, and stylists all rolled into one. And I'm fed up, not with the wash and cuts, the color and perms, but with listening to your problems, no matter how tired I am or how much my back hurts or, God forbid, I should have a problem myself.
I know, you've got problems - husbands, men, sex, money, ungrateful kids, ungrateful parents, ungrateful bosses, hot flashes, men, sex - and as soon as you sit down in my chair, I have to figure out how you're doing, what I should say about your latest dumb idea, whether you want to look sexy or posh or professional or ridiculously juvenile today, whether you still believe you aren't getting any older, and whether you still trust me to work miracles dressing mutton as lamb without making you look pathetic or insane, always a possibility. You talk and talk and talk, and I pamper you for a couple of hours, all the while telling you you look "just great."
Let's face it: who gets that at home? I'm upping my prices. I'm a bargain at twice the price.