A few weeks ago, I embarked on my first professional beauty mission, a trip to a salon for a new hair treatment and a blowout. I was excited. Before that, my salon visits were strictly on an as-needed basis, where I asked for the bare minimum: a trim, no blow-dry, no products or highlights of any kind. Now, at 22, I was about to live out a sliver of my Devil Wears Prada fantasies.
My idea of success was formed in large part by watching that movie an inappropriate number of times. I envisioned adulthood as walking through the big glass front doors of an office. I never imagined what existed beyond those doors but assumed it would be the kind of place where I would have to look fabulous.
At the time, the women around me never wore makeup—my sister and I gave our mom her first mascara for her 40th birthday. But somewhere along the way, I accepted that being a successful adult woman meant not just having a great wardrobe but being regularly waxed, manicured, and facialed. I bite my nails, am often on the brink of a unibrow, and have had the same haircut forever, so you could say I’m not off to a great start.
On the day of the beauty mission to try a new Olaplex-oil treatment, I scribbled on some lipstick and blush, ready to be pampered. As I approached the salon, I felt my body tense up. If I look like a clown after this, I can just go home and rinse it off, I thought to myself. This might not be me. Two women kindly welcomed me at the door. They smiled and started a conversation, but it was too late. The second they saw me I became convinced that I was not who they expected. I look too young. Or inexperienced. They can definitely tell I haven’t done this before.
And the thoughts didn’t stop there. Getting my hair washed was lovely, except that I kept wondering if my legs were resting awkwardly on the chair. Surely, a professional woman knows how to position her legs on a footrest. During the blowout, I wondered if I should be talking over the brouhaha of the hair dryer. I looked at the woman to my right, who, deep in conversation, appeared to have been sitting there comfortably for a while. Clearly not her first rodeo. Jenna Perry, the hairstylist who usually takes care of Bella Hadid, Karlie Kloss, and Emily Ratajkowski, came by to introduce herself. Again, very kind. Again, I sensed her disappointment that my 22-year-old self could be the one writing about her life’s work. We spoke for one minute. Maybe two. She chatted to my neighbor for 10. Maybe 15.
Having asked for something simple (I showed a Google Image collage of Léa Seydoux and Jeanne Damas), I felt happy with the result. I looked at myself in the mirror and observed the powers of beautification. I could feel my bangs on my forehead more than usual, but that’s something I could live with. Walking out, I sensed that people were staring at me a little more intently. I reassured myself; I was being irrational, but still sent two friends a photo to ask them if I looked crazy, just in case.
I recognize the lack of originality of these questions. A woman? Self-conscious in a hair salon covered in mirrors? Full of other women? Yeah.... And yet I can’t escape it.
I picture myself one day in the future, walking into a salon or spa with the total poise that apparently goes hand in hand with a job in a shiny office. In the meantime, I wonder why I love the idea of these experiences, since they cause me some anxiety. As a (mostly) proud member of Gen Z, a Vassar College graduate with a minor in Women, Feminist, and Queer Studies, nicknamed “Suffragette” by my father since adolescence, I find my uneasiness slightly baffling more than anything. It shouldn’t be so difficult to find a way to focus on my appearance just enough to look and feel happy in my body without teetering into self-consciousness or neurosis.
More than anywhere else, the salon atmosphere makes me face how I’m perceived. Tearing the paper when turning onto my stomach during a waxing session or showing a manicurist the damaged skin around my nails, I feel exposed. During treatments, I realize that I don’t identify with the image of the flawless woman I hope to be, which rattles my confidence, if only for a moment. I wonder how to act, how to be comfortable yet elegant, sweet yet cool, buttoned up yet playful. Perhaps, like my mother, I’ll become secure in my own definition of femininity. Perhaps I have to fake it until I make it. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.
Jeanne Malle is an Associate Editor at AIR MAIL
