I went to the hairdresser’s yesterday. I had my hair dyed and trimmed. My favorite moment is always the hair washing. I love to have my head rubbed vigorously. To the max. A thorough scalp rubbing leaves me happy and relaxed. But I am never lucky.
I think hairdressers, for fear of bothering their clients, do the hair washing with slack, feeble hands. I abhor those baby hands perched on my head. I want a furious gorilla scrubbing my melon.
Sometimes I find an angel who gives me hope and makes me restore my faith in the members of the hairdressing profession. He/she wets my head, pour the shampoo on my head and starts rubbing energetically.
Lucky for me, at last! I tell myself, sprawling into the reclining shampoo chair. Harder, harder! I think to myself, not daring to say it aloud for fear of being considered a crazy fetishist. For me, let him flay my scalp from my skull. Ah what a pleasure! But then things go wrong. 
The hairdresser rubs energetically almost all my scalp, except a very small patch. I send him/her an anguished telepathic message: RUB IT HARD, RUB IT HARD, IT ITCHES, ITCHES SO MUCH! My face contorts. I writhe in my seat. My neck stiffens up due to the intense anxiety. And the hairdresser with his/her head in the clouds, chatting merrily away. The world and all its sensations vanish, except the horrible itching of the isolated islet left unrubbed.
I have to restrain myself with all my might to keep from grabbing this damned hairdresser’s hands and embed them in that forgotten patch and have it rubbed thoroughly. I wait in agony for the hair conditioner, just in case my bad luck should change. DAMN! He/she keeps doing it wrong, rubbing strongly the already rubbed area but leaving the hellish patch of scalp untouched. This itch is killing me! I really can’t stand it anymore. I end by scratching myself with the fury of a demon. I dig my nails hard into that damned small patch until I hurt myself, but I couldn’t care less. 
I have my hair dried and brushed, the hairdresser finishes, I pay for the service, I say bye and leave in a very, very bad mood. My head lacerated for my own frantic scratching, but I feel no relief. I want the hairdresser’s hands kneading my scalp brutally, not mine. So, I keep searching for El Dorado: that perfect hairdresser’s where I am never left with a small patch of scalp unwashed.