Can I get you a side of shame with that wax?

I'm one of those people who likes quiet. On the rare occasion that I treat myself to a massage, I check the "prefer silence" box on the form.

Getting  my hair cut is my favorite kind of pampering, and my stylist is the perfect fit because she doesn't feel compelled to fill in every gap with chitchat. She lets me just zone out and enjoy the quiet roar of the hair dryer and the aroma of expensive hair products that I'd never actually purchase.

When I received the message on Friday morning that my stylist had a bad case of sciatica and wouldn't be able to cut my hair, I was deeply bummed. 

My hair desperately needed attention, so calling back, I reluctantly rescheduled that same day with a different stylist.

It all started fine enough. I let her know what I had in mind and we headed back to the shampoo station.

As soon as I reclined, it began. "So what kind of shampoo do you use?" (Please indulge me and imagine a Valley Girl voice from here on out.)*

Oh, Lord. Can I pretend I didn't hear her or that I suddenly don't speak English? No comprendo.

I know where this is headed. I do not feel like going there. I wish I were Tina Fey quick-witted and could chime in with, "Whatever you're using!"

But no. I answer. "John Frieda?" I say meekly, feeling stupidly sheepish. (I think this is the desired effect.)

Her face screws up with distaste. "I'm not familiar with that, but any shampoo brand you can buy at the store spends all its money on fragrances and cheap cleansers. They're really bad for your skin.

"This is Pureology Fullfyl, and it feeds your hair 14 essential vitamins and minerals. It's totally worth the investment." (Trust me: the key word here is investment.)

Sigh. I wish she knew. The hard sell never works on me. In fact, it the opposite of works. I may well go out and buy an even cheaper drugstore shampoo in protest (even though I'm all stocked up on skin-damaging shampoo at the moment).

It continues throughout the rest of the appointment. The miracle styling cream. "Voila! My favorite hairspray that won't leave your hair feeling stiff or sticky!" 

I smile and nod indulgently, desperately missing, Kate, who, yes, tells me about the products she's using on me but is never pushy.

I've reached an age and stage in my life when, for my own sanity (and pocketbook) I need to stop caring so much. 

I've always worried about every little thing, from what I feed my family to the skin care products I use, but I've had enough. I educate myself, make informed choices and do the best I can. I am at peace with that.

As I head over to the counter to pay, the stylist shows me the styling cream. It costs $34. I quickly estimate that if I "invest" in all the products she recommends, I will be about $140 poorer, not including the $60 I'm already spending on my cut and eyebrow wax. (Mark, if you're reading this, I'm totally kidding. I do not spend $60 on my hair every eight weeks. Ha. Ha. Yeah ...)

I don't know what income stratosphere I'd need to reach in order for it to feel okay to spend $140 on four hair products, but I have not reached it.

I say no thanks, walk out the door and return home to my crappy store-bought shampoo and conditioner.

I've heard it's terrible for my skin. But at least it smells great. I will comfort myself with this as I compromise my values or give myself cancer or whatever.

*It occurs to me that this may be construed as offensive to hairstylists. Who are awesome. Crap. I'm sorry if I've been offensive. Consider this merely a tirade against preachy pushiness.