I found my current hairlady from a massage client who used to manage a-not a Supercuts-the other one-Hair Cuttery. She was a manager there but not pulling enough dough(did you know most of these kind of service women are only making minimum wage and not EVEN getting any commission on product sales? To touch people's disgusting heads? It is an honor, a privilege AND a requirement to tip 20%. You don't have the 20%? Go someplace cheaper.) and I'm not sure how we got on my favorite topic in the universe(hair)but we did.
Origin of favorite topic. It was the 70s? November 24th,1976.(You weren't born yet? Too bad.) I just looked it up. My sibling and I were upstairs cleaning our room. Ugh what a bummer but now I experience those same: You're not going anywhere today you're staying here and CLEANing moments in my own life and I understand. My Mom called us down. Come quick. Vidal Sassoon was on Phil Donahue.
It was, quite frankly, mind expanding. Women who had kept their hair in a permanent bun-like women did in those days-who Sassoon exposed as getting mold in their hair from putting it up wet. Big funky cube shaped 'fros. Art and design on your head. Just incredible stuff for the time period. I wish you had been there.
It's not actually the 'do that drives my interest. It's that one slice that makes you look as if your intelligence has been dramatically increased. There was an ad-when I studied that stuff. Cartoon of Frankenstein:"A bad haircut can make anyone look stupid."
I was talking to my massage client and my frustration was that this-not as cheap as Hair Cuttery but close-place I was going to, was costing me So Much Time. I mean, you expect that from a beauty school because people are learning how to hold all that stuff as well as a conversation, but I was getting stuck sitting there for hours. Like an entire Sunday morning. So not cool.
I was getting bleach applied(I think they call it a Soap Cap? It's for resistant grey hair.) and then sitting and then something called Malibu and then sitting and then color and more sitting and that is not even the cut.
So my massage client says, Malibu? Do you swim a lot?
Umm nope. I leap around in the pool but not my head. Hmm she says. That's for taking the chlorine out of your hair.
Hmmm, thinks me. Bad hmmmm.
In the words of Judge Judy: Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining.
I switched over to my client's hairlady. Strangely-it's even closer to my house than the last place. And that is coming from someone who would drive for a good haircutter. Far. Really far.
She is Hispanic-probably late 40's and obsessed with looking younger. Not just her. EVERYBODY.
She explained that her husband is younger than her and she fears he will leave her for a newer model.
For me-good lawd have mercy-I have done so much learning in the Department of Self-acceptance. In a million years, I wouldn't ask to look younger. It's a stupid game that you will not ultimately win, right?
Once, I visited an extremely handsome gay couple in the East Village for dinner. Their bathroom was ringed with a special shelf just for all their skin potions. So when you're 60, you're gonna look 55, huh? said me. I wasn't invited back.
Here's another one I picked up from a hairman in Elmsville-the town of my yoot. He said, "You go to your class reunion and everybody looks old-except you."
I have another doctors appointment this afternoon. It's with the blood lady. The hematologist. It's a little worrisome-ish based on her having looked at the new information from the pre-hernia cat scan and now, wanting to see me.
Hmmm. This morning, looking old seems kind of even more okay as a goal. And getting old. That'd be even better.