Hair - 2010 Version

No, I'm not talking about the Broadway Musical, although I was around for its first run. I'm talking about the spikey, or curly, or flat, or thinning, or multi-colored, or totally shaved stuff that comes out of the top of one's head. I know it comes out of other, maybe less desirable, places, but for right now I'd prefer to refer only to the hair on top, or that which used to be there.

By far I am not one of those women who is obsessed with her hair, but on this occasion I have something to celebrate. I have finally found a stylist I want to go back to, over and over again. I must say this very quietly, as the last person I said this about almost immediately moved to Costa Rica. I hope it wasn't to get away from my hair.

I am certain that most, if not all of you are at this point cheering silently for me in some manner. We have all had at least one nightmare experience at a hair salon. I may have been lucky enough to have more than one. In fact, it was many, many more. I do believe it goes all the way back to sophomore year in high school, when my mother (I like to think she meant well) took me to the only hair dresser in our little town, and told her to cut my hair, short.

Do you remember what Mia Farrow did to her hair after the legendary fight with Frank Sinatra? Well, mine was shorter than that - approximately one inch long, everywhere. It took me over ten years before I was ready to even trim it again, and then it was with a hair stylist I was dating. He knew the consequences of screwing it up, and was extremely careful to take off exactly the desired amount. He wasn't the only one who knew where the scissors were.

Now my hair is short, again. It happened somewhere around the time my second child, my son, turned old enough to grab large fists full of my waist-length tresses and yank, hard. He was one of those babies who liked to be carried around a lot, and I guess he figured my hair to be some type of handle he could hold for extra stability. His, not mine.

However, the moment I decided it was time to take the plunge, I quickly realized I was diving into something else: an enormous pool of infinitely variable skill-leveled and personality-clad artisans who ranged from gum-snapping twenty-somethings with magenta spikes on their heads to elder lasses whose perms had gone out some time in the 1950's. It was actually a gentleman who somehow talked me into a perm, about 25 years ago. He burned the entire front of my head, then tried to tell me it was the most current of styles. Only if one lived in the middle of an electrical power grid, and liked to step in puddles.

Another young lady opened up our first conversation by clipping a piece off of her index finger while starting to cut my hair. I might have brushed that off if she hadn't exclaimed, "Oh, I am always doing that!" Obviously she had chosen the wrong profession, and it showed in the lopsided cut I received. At least she was able to get the blood out of my oddly-shaped "do."

Then there was the gal who decided that I needed to be a blonde. I had started out as a blonde, from birth to about age three, but slowly became a rich brunette, tinged with auburn. Her decision came as I was visited by my first substantial batch of gray, which I was wearing as a badge of courage. She announced to me that she would be all ready to pick out a color for me the next time I came in. She is still waiting.

There seem to be a considerable number of stylists who love doing the most current cuts, like the Jennifer Aniston or the Courtney Cox, or the Cindy Lauper or Lady Gaga. It doesn't matter much who you are or what you would wear well, you will leave the salon with something trendy and completely inappropriate for your looks, age, or profession.

I got so fed up that once in a while I would put off my search and cut my own hair. I do have some experience, and know more than a little about techniques, but there is one problem: the back. Even if you can arrange twelve or thirteen mirrors in your bathroom so you can see your whole head, you can never get exactly the right angle of scissor precision, and the end result is far from perfect. At least I had the satisfaction of knowing I hadn't actually paid someone to make me look that bad.

After a sustained bout of self-pruning, I finally gave up and went to a salon nearby. I knew nothing about the place except that it was a few shops away from my favorite shoe store. It was nice, quiet, friendly, and full of women. Not girls, mind you - women! Many ages, many styles, but all of whom looked well groomed and happy. Nirvana!

My personal pick is a smart, attractive, easy-going young lady, young enough to not retire in six months, but old enough to know how to listen to a client. She actually does what I ask her to do - her own very talented version, of course, but it is still what I tell her I would like. I would have her bronzed and made into a monument of some sort, but she would probably have a tough time with the scissors.

If you are hoping for a name or number, dream on! For now, anyway, I like to think she's all mine.