The Emotional Dump Zone

My husband reckons I've got an invisible sticker on my forehead. Not literally, although honestly at this point if one appeared somewhere between the hormonal pigmentation, the fine lines and whatever fresh betrayal my mid thirties have decided to deliver this week, I probably wouldn't even question it. I'd look in the mirror, sigh heavily, put concealer over it and move on with my day. But apparently somewhere above my head there's this invisible sign that says EMOTIONAL DUMP ZONE, because women tell hairdressers things. Not immediately. There's a system to it. There are stages. The first twenty minutes are usually logistics. School drop off. Work. Traffic. Sport. Husbands. The weather. Somebody's child has a cough. Somebody else forgot a library book three weeks ago and is now in debt to the school for seventeen dollars and fifty cents and somehow that feels personally offensive.

Then colour goes on.

Foils start happening.

And something shifts.

I've noticed it for years now and once you see it you can't unsee it. Around thirty or forty minutes into an appointment people start yawning. Not little polite yawns where you cover your mouth and apologise. Full body yawning. Soul leaving the vessel yawning. Jaw nearly dislocating yawning. And people always apologise for it too. "Oh my God sorry, I'm so tired." But honestly, after twenty one years behind the chair, I don't actually think it's tiredness.

I think it's safety.

I think women walk around carrying so much invisible responsibility that the second their nervous system realises nobody needs anything from them for five consecutive minutes, it quietly powers down like an old desktop computer trying to install an update.

Because women carry absurd amounts of information in their heads. School readers. Permission slips. School photos on Thursday but sports uniform Friday except not this Friday because it's free dress and somehow you were expected to know that from an email sent fourteen business days ago. Somebody needs joggers. Somebody needs lunch box snacks. Somebody's decided they no longer eat food with texture. Somebody else only eats food that is beige. You need toothpaste. You forgot toothpaste. You remembered toothpaste but forgot batteries. There are forty seven tabs open in your brain at all times and twenty two of them are buffering.

Then suddenly you're sitting in a salon chair.

Nobody needs snacks.

Nobody needs you to locate a singular missing soccer sock like you personally manage inventory control for the household.

Nobody's yelling "MUM" through a locked bathroom door while you're trying to have the most peaceful thirty seven seconds of your entire week.

Nobody needs you.

And I think women are so profoundly under rested mentally that the second somebody takes responsibility away from them, their body goes, "oh thank Christ," and suddenly we're unpacking childhood trauma while I'm foiling the left hand side.

And honestly, I love that part.

Not because I think hairdressers are therapists. God no. Please do not confuse my emotionally invested personality and concerning level of care for your fringe placement with formal qualifications. But salons are strange little places when you think about them. You're sitting beside someone but not directly facing them. There's no pressure. No expectation. No awkward sustained eye contact. We're both technically doing something else while talking. You don't have dishes to stack. Emails to answer. Washing to fold. There's no productivity attached to sitting there.

You are simply existing.

And I actually think women have forgotten how little they get to do that.

I have clients who start yawning within half an hour every single appointment and I know before they know. Life's been busy. Something's heavy. They've been holding too much. Sometimes they talk about it. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes we unpack marriage problems while I tone a root stretch. Sometimes we discuss workplace politics while I strategically place face framing brightness. Sometimes somebody cries. Sometimes we laugh so hard I have to physically stop because if you move your head while I'm trying to foil around your hairline I cannot guarantee either of our safety.

And somewhere in amongst all of that — the colour. The foils. The coffee. The four and a half hours. The quiet. The chaos. The woman sitting in my chair slowly dropping her shoulders from somewhere near her ears back down to where they're actually supposed to live — something else is happening.

She's resting.

Not sleeping.

Not checking out.

Resting.

And honestly I think that's why women keep coming back to salons they trust.

Not because we made them blonder.

Not because we covered the greys.

Not because the layers sat perfectly.

Because for four and a half hours they got to stop carrying everything.

And sometimes that matters more than the hair.