A Certain Savoir Hair
by Laurey
Boyd
I
got a new haircut today. And a new style. As a baby boomer, I had become
complacent. My old standby style was beginning to look like the proverbial
brown football helmet, only worse. The longer it got, the more I looked
like Professor Snape in the Harry Potter movies. Not good. Solution?
Cast
my fate to the
wind and trust an anonymous hair stylist for direction.
My husband has seen me in every possible hair length imaginable, from the less than one inch crew (pixie-ish if done right, butch if done badly) to the middle-of-my-back long. He loves me no matter how I turn out. "My dearest is my dearest,” he says, albeit sometimes with a heavy sigh. "You’ve got to maintain me,” I insist, “this kind of natural beauty doesn’t come cheap."
"I understand,” he says. Lucky for me!
The first time I trusted a stylist’s vision for me (rather than my own) was shortly after the birth of my third child. I was slogging by on little sleep and even fewer neurons. I had no idea what I needed. This large, tattooed, spikey-haired redhead took one look and said, "I know what you need." With the confident snip of her scissors, she transformed me from tired frump to energized fab. She cut it much shorter than I would have dared. When I arrived home, my delighted husband smiled and said, "Quick ! Let’s do something before my wife gets home!"
We moved to another state not long after that. No stylist since has had her vision.
I did have one long running relationship with a particular dresser, though. A seasoned veteran of the hair wars, she had my complete trust. We talked God, politics, and movies on a regular basis. Other people in the salon became quiet and listened in on our usually verboten topics. Toward the end of our relationship, she began to think less clearly. She twice cut the temple hair on my left side to about 1 ½ inches when the rest of my hair was about 10 inches. I forgave her. At my next appointment we were having our usual gabfest when she picked up the disparately shorter locks and trimmed them again. I was now on notice. I lived with the maladjustment and told myself just to be more vigilant next time and less wrapped up in our repartee. After all, I could sort of hide it. I liked her.
My loyalty was really tested when I asked her amid intense conversation if she thought my bangs were short enough. "You don’t think they’re short enough?" she asked.
"Well, I’m not sure," I said.
"Oh,” she replied as she absently snipped them to the middle of my forehead. Did I mention I have curly hair? The effect was poodle-like, for weeks. Not long after that she retired.
My latest great find is a Muslim woman whom I chose blindly from a list of available stylists. I needed emergency beautification and dashed off to be greeted by a foreign woman in a head scarf. I could just imagine her thought process: "This one I give Decadent Western Hair Style Number 47.” I was in no position to question. Besides, I hadn’t done too badly relying in the past on the kindness of strangers. Whatever her opinions, she cut and styled with flair. I thought this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Alas, the Muslim woman is taking a three month sabbatical. I am once again thrust on the mercy of the beautician court. What the heck. I’m game. I shall start afresh with a new one, this one young. Do with me as you will, I say, knowing at least I won’t look boring.
Voila! I
emerge a new me and a new style. My husband should be happy when he
gets home
tonight. After all, it is his birthday. And if it doesn’t
make him happy, I’ll remind him what he said the first time: “I
understand.”