Free Am I Right or Am I Right? by Barry Jonsberg

bothering me for some time. It had nothing to do with my date on Friday, you understand.
    As it turned out, I wish I’d stayed with Vanessa and watched the rest of the soap opera.

Chapter 10
    Just your average hairdo
    I don’t know how you are positioned on the feminist spectrum, but let me present you with a scenario. You are thinking of going to the hairdresser’s to prepare for a date. Part of you is disturbed by this. You examine your motives and see if they stand up to rational scrutiny. Which of the following do you most identify with?
    a) Going on a date should not compromise your standards. Trying to impress a guy with good grooming is a sad indictment of your insecurity. It is better to turn up exactly as you are, warts and all, and if he is not impressed, then he is a shallow individual not worthy of your attention in the first place.
    b) It is entirely understandable to want to make an impression. If a trip to the local dump is normally preceded by ensuring you are clean and tidy, then a social engagement would obviously justify greater effort. This would include paying attention to hair, makeup, and outfit. Not to do so would be artificial. What’s the alternative? Not showering, and dressing in soiled shorts and ripped T-shirt with bird’s-nest hair?
    c) You might as well go whole hog—hairdo, manicure, pedicure, liposuction, Botox, facelift, nose job, new outfit from Versace, and sufficient makeup to cement a stone wall. Then leave half your brain cells at home and simply giggle and clutch the guy’s arm from time to time.
    It seemed to me that the second option was the mature and considered choice. So on Wednesday afternoon, before I went to work, I looked up hairdressers in the Yellow Pages.
    I decided I wouldn’t go to my usual place. Don’t get me wrong. It was a fine establishment and Cheryl, my hairdresser, was competent at lopping off split ends while engaging in uninspiring conversation about the weather. I just felt she was more of an artisan than an artist.
    I also didn’t want to go to places that used puns in their business name. You know, things like The Final Cut or Hair Today. Don’t ask me why. Oh, go on. Ask me why. They bloody annoy me, that’s why. I refuse to hand over money to someone who thinks a weak pun is a brilliant marketing ploy. And as for anything with a
z
in it—Cutz, Endz—well, I wouldn’t advocate firebombing under any circumstances, but I understand how someone might feel it was the only solution.
    In the end I decided to give Alessandro’s a go. I called for an appointment. It sounded expensive. You can tell these things from the receptionist’s tone of voice. The trouble is, you can’t ask about price on the phone, can you? I’m not sure why. It’s an immutable law, like gravity or something.
    After I left Vanessa’s house, I took a bus straight to the mall. Alessandro’s was next to fashion outlets that charged three hundred bucks for a miniskirt. Alessandro’s was impressive. Black marble, a tasteful sign, spotlighting, no price list in the window. I felt inadequate just entering the place.
    The receptionist gave me the once-over and didn’t appear impressed. Maybe I should have left then. I can’t stand people who think they’re doing you a favor by accepting your business. The receptionist was stick-thin, dressed in black, and sporting a hairdo that stuck out at crazy angles. Undoubtedly it was the height of fashion. I fronted up to the counter and gave my name. She scanned the appointment book and seemed disappointed to find I had indeed booked.
    The hairdresser came over and gave me the same look the receptionist did. “What would you like done?” she said, studying my hair. I can’t be sure, but I think I detected a lip curling fractionally.
    I’m fine in most social situations. I can talk intelligently to people. But hairdressers intimidate me. I suddenly find myself nervous and tongue-tied, as if I am not qualified to talk about my own