Shampoo-Bowl Confessions

I've been thinking about a phenomena closely related to airplane confessions known as
Shampoo-Bowl Confessions.
You know, you're sitting next to a complete stranger in the airplane and by the end of the ride they know deeper, more intimate things about you than your spouse, mother or closest friend.
Why is this?
I think it's so easy to spill everything because they are completely, unemotionally involved in any way to your life. They won't be involved. They will hardly remember you past baggage claim. It's an unattached, third party observer that acts more as a diary, just in person form. There is no judgement passed, and you are still socially acceptable since spilling now known intimate details.
The best part is... you'll never see them again. How cathartic an airplane ride can be, given your neighbor is a great listener.
As I'm about to enter into the culture of hair, nails and other fantastically shallow aspects, I realize that there's a lot more to this profession that I am increasingly excited about... and anyone who has had their head shampooed knows what I'm talking about.
Shampoo-bowl confessions.
I meet my hairstylist, whom I hardly know. It's a color weave, so I know I'm going to be approximately 1-1/2 hours with this individual. She sits me down in the hairstyling chair and we start our innocent small talk.
She asks me what I want done today. I begin to trust her. I listen intently to what she plans to do with my hair and pick the colors that I want done. Oh- and while she's at it, might as well add a trim because well, I trust that she won't take too much off the ends.
She starts, and our conversation gets to deeper subjects. Family, friends, work, and school. I begin to talk about things I would only write in my diary. Thoughts that may be mean, or suaded if I was in different company but are more free because she has no emotional or social tie to my personal life. She is only my hairdresser.
Then I'm in the shampoo bowl. It's a pretty personal thing, now that I think about it. I don't let just anyone shampoo my hair. The only other person that's washed my hair is my mother.
I feel trust, and I feel like I can tell my human diary anything. She is, after all, shampooing my hair. Confessions just spill out like word vomit. I can't seem to stop, and somehow I don't want to stop everything that I'm saying. All social filters evaporate. She has dozens of clients, and she may not even remember me.
I feel safe.
Conversation seems to flow. She seems to be asking the right questions and listening intently.
Well, in reality, I can't tell if she's listening or just concentrating really hard on cutting my hair.
Either way I feel better. I know that talking through it has placed my problems in the air and maybe I've found a solution or two in the process of cementing my thoughts through my monologue.
She's done. She styles it. A little poofy, and she may have back-combed a little more than I'm used to, but my soul is lighter and my mind confident in her ability not only as my hairdresser, but my personal psychologist. I think I'll come back to her again. Better leave her a good tip...
I fiddle with my hair and fix my usual part in my rearview mirror.
She was fantastic. I'll even recommend her to my friends.
Yes, shampoo-bowl confessions have quite the impact on the whole hair-cutting process.
I simply can't wait.