A couple of weeks ago I called the hair salon to make an appointment with Mary.
Mary? Oh, she’s not working here anymore.
No. She left. She can’t do hairdressing anymore. You know, she has a bad back. Should I still make an appointment for you?
Yeah. Can you get her to return and do my hair?
No. You know, anyone here can do it.
Anyone. Can. Do. It. Anyone? Anyone?
But Anyone doesn’t know me.
Anyone doesn’t know I suffer from extreme hairstyle and all things related neurosis.
Anyone doesn’t know my hang-up regarding my hair and a particular 129 shades of red.
Anyone doesn’t know my bangs and their quirks, my quirks, and the forces that drive them.
Anyone doesn’t know my story. Me, my story.
No siree, I don’t think so.
Where I come from, hair clientele is coveted property. You’re a possession and you like it. She moves salons, you follow. You cut your bangs in a fit of impatience, you pray she doesn’t notice. You use boxed peroxide in an insane and amateurish moment; you shamefully sulk into the cutting chair and deny, deny, deny. I know, I’ve done it all.
Your hairstylist is so into your personal sphere, she knows the nittiest of the grittiest of your life. She knows on which days you match your bra and bikinis, she knows who you lust and who you despise, dare I say she knows more than hubbie knows about you. Or cares to know.
Or at least, they pretend to, all the while making you clean, shiny and silky.
Oh, to feel that feeling again.
This week, unable to return to Mary’s salon—you know, too many memories—I sought relief elsewhere for my faded, overgrown tresses. A friend referred me to ‘David’ a reputable hip stylist with jest a little sugar in his tank, if you know what I mean. As soon as I sat in his sleek styling chair, I nearly felt I was back home in San Francisco.
First thing David did was lean in and ask me, “So, Sherry, what’s your story?”
Then I knew I was home.