A Hair Story

For many years, aside from an occasional trim at SuperCuts, professional hands never touched my hair. OK, there was that stint from 2001-2002 when I had short blond hair, but I got lazy and decided to grow it out. By the time I birthed Alex, my hair was very long and thick and heavy.

I started going to one stylist who was very good. However, she was a little too careful for my taste. She would never cut quite as much as I wanted her to. So, on a whim one day when I accompanied the Mr. to his haircut appointment, I booked an appointment with his barber stylist. She wasn't afraid to lop the locks, and finally, I had the short cut I had envisioned. Well, almost.

I've watched enough of Nick Arrojo and Jenn MacDonald to know a few things about choppy cuts and texturing. I tried several times to explain to my hair girl that I wanted a messier style. Something choppier. She got very close once, but only once. I tried to convince myself that it was OK. That for a mere $14 per visit, I could use a little more product and spend a few more minutes to achieve the style I wanted.

After an entire year of being the expert in this hairstylist/client relationship, I knew it was time for a change. I got the number of the guy who does the hair of the coolest girl I know and made an appointment.

The day of my appointment, I was a ball of nerves. On the drive down to his "studio" downtown, I was thinking about how I could explain exactly what I wanted. I really didn't look like I needed a haircut, but I was really hoping he could make it more modern, hipper, and funkier.

When I walked into the salon, I didn't see any of the hunter green trim and wicker accents that so many hair establishments sport in our area. The space was typical of our downtown buildings--two-story with a basement, early 1900s construction. The salon occupied the entire ground floor. It was completely open, and the walls were very roughly finished. The black duct work was exposed, and several original modern paintings were spotlighted by vintage lamps. At the front in an open area stood a lone styling chair. Opposite the chair stood two rolling Craftsman chests. And there was My New Guy, wearing skater-inspired sneakers and Buddy Holly-ish glasses.

As I waited for him to finish up with his client, I took in my surroundings and thought, "I want hair that looks like it belongs here."

Soon, I was sitting in the chair, ready with my schpill about how I really like my short cut, but my hair's really thick, and I'm not sure the cut is modern enough and..

"This length is good, but it is way too blunt. You need a lot more texture," he said.

Right then and there, he became my new personal hero.

OK, so first of all? The shampoo was heaven. None of that lather-you-up-and-rinse-and-let's-go. Ohmahgod, y'all, there was massaging and well, massaging. I would pay just to get the shampoo. But then, he took almost an entire hour cutting and razoring and snipping. We talked about mutual friends, the dismal nightlife in this town, and where I could find some temporary color for the Prom-O-Rama. Then he styled my hair, snipped a little more, and finally, I was done.

It was the very best haircut ever. Of course, it cost more than three times the amount of the old haircut, but I got every penny's worth.

So, to all y'all who have been preaching the virtues of a real stylist? You were totally right.