Aveda Salon: The Compliments are Skin-Deep

I am often afraid of new things. Rather than find a nail salon, doctor, eye doctor, dentist, spray tanning salon, hair dresser, etc in New York City, I continue to take care of all things health and grooming when I am at home on Long Island. (I still call my parents house “home” even though I live in my own, very adult apartment.) Last week, however, my over-straightened hair hit a horrendous stage of disrepair, and being Monday, I had no hope of going to Long Island to get my hair cut before my entire self-image would implode.

I searched the web, and found one salon that was open late enough (or at all) on a Monday for me to get a hair cut after work. It was the Scott J Aveda salon.

From my impression, which is based on one Aveda experience (I watched my sister get a makeover at an Aveda salon in Palo Alto—she had received a gift certificate there for her bridal shower), a few friends’ reviews, and the salon’s website, I gathered that Aveda salons were more upscale than I was used to, which made me feel insecure and undeserving of such an establishment. However, I was too tired to be nervous and too desperate to care much, so I walked into my appointment without anxiety.

Shortly after nodding hello to the security guard and giving my name to the young woman at the counter, a fabulous gay boy took my coat, complimented my outfit, and offered me a beverage. I accepted water and thanked him for the compliment, knowing that if he was as fabulous as he thinks he is, he would know that my clothes were not haute couture and would notice that my boots were worn in the toes, and most obviously, that my hair was in a state of disaster. And if he was as fabulous as he acts, he surely would have judged me as a (financially) poor, (physically) ugly girl who doesn’t have respect for fashion or hair, much like Anne Hathaway in the first hour of The Devil Wears Prada, making his compliment horribly insincere. I didn’t trust him.

Soon I was introduced to Trish, a senior stylist (she was the only stylist available, and being senior, is more expensive). She asked what I wanted to do with my hair that evening without insulting it or commenting on how dead it was from flat-ironing, and told me that my ($26 H&M) bag was cute. She then told me that I had very nice hair. Could Trish, the senior stylist, see beneath the burned wreckage of split ends to my beautiful, thick hair that lay beneath? Possibly. She must know her hair, being the pricey senior-ranked stylist she is, but being a woman in NYC, she likely also knows her bags, and the bag she complimented was cheap. I was skeptical.

Following my brief hair-sessment with Trish, I was led to Jay, a slightly less fabulous man who washed my hair. Though very polite, he did not effusively compliment me and gave me a scalp and shoulder massage while and after he washed my hair with Aveda’s Smooth Infusions Shampoo, which helps keep wavy hair straight and frizz-free in humid weather, and which I will probably buy product if I go there again, thus proving to the super-posh Aveda staff that I have money and respect for my hair. I appreciated Jay for his refrain from unnecessary flattery.

Hair clean and muscles relaxed, I returned to Trish for my hair cut. Trish was surprisingly quiet during the process. I believe that she was focusing on her work, which was nice as I had little to say. While she was focusing on my hair, I imagined trivialities that I could use in conversation and examined myself in the mirror. Through sunburned, I didn’t look completely awful. My pants and outfit were adorable (despite the scuffed boots) and from far away, my bag could be misinterpreted as of higher quality than it really is. I then studied Trish and her ensemble. Most of her jewelry involved diamonds (which I learned were real through a short exchange between her and another employee), but her clothes were not that expensive. Maybe Aveda didn’t see me as a pariah after all.

My mind drifted to the conversations around me. Across the room, a new customer came in and was greeted by her stylist. “OMG, a-dorable bag!”

Oh, okay, so they were trained with a list of compliments to dish out to customers. They aren’t just instructed to be warm, friendly, and polite, they are told, “Say this: ‘_(cute bag!)__’”

After my haircut and complimentary hand massage from Jay, I debated the offer for a free make-up touch-up. It was 9 PM (close to bedtime and too dark to notice make-up), but I was meeting Ken for a drink, so why not please my man? I accepted.

With my makeup fixed and my check paid, I left the brightly lit salon to find Ken. I bid farewell to the security guard, and he said, “Love the hair, love the makeup.”