I like going to the salon.
I like reclining in the black leather chair with my black hair in the sink. I like the feeling of the cool water before it gets warm as it absorbs my hair. When a light stream trickles down the side of my head, into and around my ear. The fingers scratch my scalp and massage minty shampoo and conditioner onto my wet head. All of the filth and stress from previous days washes away down the drain and my head is clean. Then the towel is draped over my head and the hands squeeze out the excess moisture.
I like the feeling of hands running through my hair, gently pulling and tugging at each strand collectively. The heat of the blow dryer as it desiccates my thick hair and changes it from wavy to frizzy. The hands clip my hair into pieces, then press the straightener down on each section, smoking as it slides up and down, straight as a parallel line.
I like the feeling of my hair, soft and delicate. The hands grab the curling iron from the white hot, metal chamber. And then the iron manipulates my hair, twisting it into the shape of a tight spring. My hair bounces freely when I turn my head and leave the salon with a satisfactory grin on my face.
My hair is pretty, so I feel pretty. I like that feeling.