First of all, she must have trained in some coven, because she was able to foam whatever soap she was using into something akin to a warm scalp blanket. It was then rinsed with water that I’m sure was pulled out of a mountain stream in wooden buckets by forest elves and heated to exactly 98.6 degrees. Along with the scented soap, every drop of stress that remained in my body was rinsed away. I wrongly assumed that was it and that I’d be led back to “the chair.” Oh no, this was only the beginning, mon amour. This was where various other mystery liquids were added and massaged into my dry and thirsty scalp. At this point, my body began to levitate, and I’m sure I had a silly smile on my face.

I just lay there and was pampered into oblivion.

Finally, I was led back to “the chair.” I stared back at my reflection, not recognizing myself in the mirror. Then, my hair-washing attendant asked if I wanted a hand massage. At that point, I really didn’t even need a haircut; what was happening right then was certainly good enough. She went ahead and put a towel on the left handrest to make me more comfortable. Trust me, I was just fine. She could have laid my arm on a cat-of-nine-tails, and I would have been happy as a lark.

My hairdresser pulled up, with the confidence of Julius Ceasar, and got her scissors out and started cutting away while my left hand was deftly and professionally massaged. There could have been oil involved, but I can neither confirm nor deny that fact. As my hair was being cut, I actually thought, “Geez, do I get my right hand massaged too?” Sure enough, my hand and hair-wash attendant put a towel on the right armrest, and I actually said out loud, “Yay!” This, luckily, got two smiles.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I was led back to the inner sanctum for a second time with my third team member for a rinse. I had a serious think about how much it would cost me to do this every morning as I start my day. The cost would be—yes, I did the math in my head—about $9,000 a year. Even now as I write, I stopped and looked to see how our retirement fund was doing in the market. I think I have a legitimate shot at this.

In the end, I looked like a cross between Ryan Renolds and George Clooney. Meanwhile, Diane was having magical things done to her hair in the back, which I referred to earlier as the inner sanctum. I checked in with her. She had a towel over her face and most of her hair in something resembling a witches’ cauldron, complete with wisps of smoke swirling about. I looked around for jars labeled “eye of newt” and “toe of frog” but was unable to find them. She had an hour left, so I let her know I’d meet her back at the condo. I slowly backed out and bolted for the door.

What a fine experience.