Though much of what's written there has been discussed at length here -- beer, barbeque, the tendency to both hate and judge -- there is one very important item that hasn't, and due to some recent developments, must now be addressed.
"I care an inordinate amount about my hair."
I don't want you to think I'm superficial, though I have been known to refer to shoes, bags and coats as The Holy Trinity. Details. And it's not that I have a Samson-like relationship with my locks, either -- I've worn them short (for many years), long and every which way in between. It's actually more that ever since the day I first got the bob haircut I wore for almost all of high school, the same person has been cutting my hair. And that day, my friends, was almost 11 years ago.
For 11 years, with less than a handful of exceptions -- in fact only three that I can recall right off hand -- my hair has been under the care of one person. Her name is LeighAnn, and for a smidge more than a decade she has remembered every detail about me that I shared, who I was dating, what I was planning to do after high school, then after college, then after grad school, etc., etc., etc. And most importantly, she has never steered me wrong in the hair department. She always knows exactly what I want, she gets the work done quick and she gives a mean compliment.
And all that for less than $15.
Now, I'm facing uncertain times. The hair apocalypse is nigh and I am battening down the hatches. My hair is long. It's unruly. The ends are dead and fragile, the shape is lifeless. It is in desperate need of a shearing. A mild intervention, at the very least. And the very idea of it just scares the living bejesus out of me. (Yes, Juan Bejesus.)
First of all, I refuse to go to any salon or shop that hasn't come recommended by someone. I used to read horror stories about hair stylists in New York who would "listen" to what you wanted, and then sort of just go with their own inner muse and create whatever the hell they felt like on the top of your head. I can think of few things in this world that make me more uncomfortable than that very idea, and one of them is brussel sprouts. You see? This is serious.
I need a hair stylist I can trust. Someone who will listen to my concerns and understand my hair anxiety. Someone who will look at the pictures I brought with me and actually process as I describe the hair cut I want. Someone who will not take off more than I ask and call it "artistic freedom."
Furthermore, after doing a little poking around on the good old internet, I need to find someone who won't charge me $50 for said hair cut and call that a "bargain basement deal." That is the biggest crock of shit I ever took a whiff of in my life. I know we're in the city and things are more expensive, but $50? We may have a bigger issue at hand here, and that is my current state of poverty and how hair cuts don't land too high on my necessary-for-survival list. The last time I paid someone anywhere near $50 to do anything with my hair was when I had it done for the Miss Murray State University pageant back in college, and I think that only cost me $35 if I recall correctly. And that lady used at LEAST two cans of hairspray, worth probably two and a quarter a piece all on their own, not to mention the labor. So you can imagine my natural dismay when someone wants to charge me $50 for some water from a spritz bottle and a few snippety snips.
Personal economic crises aside, I do need a haircut. Desperately. So if any of you readers are New York/New Jersey-ites, please be liberal with your recommendations in the comments section. Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a drill.
cheers,
elizabeth
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