April 6, 2005
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Messing with my Head
© The Author, 2005I tried to make myself comfortable in the plastic salon chair as she circled around me, taking stock. Her belly was soft and tan and peeking from the bottom of her black, stretchy shirt; her midsection swayed gently as she combed and cut my wet hair. I contemplated my own belly–typically contoured and rib cagey, but daily transforming into a hard and rounded little bowl after dinner. Like snowflakes, no two bellies are alike.
Suddenly, in mid-cut, disrupting me in mid-silly-thought, a deep-rooted burp seeped out from under her breath. She threw her scissors down on the tray and grabbed a nearby water bottle with sudden urgency.
“I’m sorry–I just ate some pepperoni pizza for lunch and now I’m payin’ for it.”
I knew then that this hairdresser was a keeper.
Ever since my trusted childhood hairdresser, Barbie, took a razor to “feather” my bangs when I was twelve, I gave up expecting to look good emerging from the salon. But I do expect an interesting hairdresser. Even if they style my hair after a helmet or a mushroom cap–forcing me to pray no one recognizes me before I make it home to rinse the unfortunate style down the drain–all will be forgiven if they can indulge me with some good, one-sided conversation.
When I say one-sided, I mean that I want them to do the talking. After all, what do I want to pay good money to hear stories I already know for?
The hairdresser I had before this most recent, belching hairdresser was a transvestite working in a salon whose clientele was comprised primarily of longhaired Latina’s. For them, a haircut was just taking a dead centimeter or two off the ends. I usually sport a bob or a short cut–so the salon’s trannie stylist, who was bored with “not cutting hair”, automatically snatched me up.
Standing behind me and leaning down from his platform shoes, he would meet my eyes in the mirror. I would explain the cut I was thinking of, which usually involved lopping off a good few inches or so.
“Ohh girrrl! Your husband is going to be so mad!” This is a statement that all the Latina’s would echo. Apparently these Latina’s were with men who prized their long hair.
“No–he likes me with whatever hair I have.”
“Then lets cut it shorter! Let’s make him mad girl–we’ll show him whose boss, right?”
It was after spouting a few comments like this that s/he began talking about Sasha. While they were in “L-O-V-E and you know it, girl,” Sasha was so controlling that my hairdresser was constantly venting about it. Soon, my hair became the place where her latent urges to rebel manifested. My hair looked pretty crappy, but at least things were interesting.My uncanny ability to hire interesting people to cut my hair goes back further than the vengeful trannie. One ex-hairdresser of mine was a very flamboyant Frenchmen who discussed (in great detail) the rumps of the girlfriends he had before he married his wife (a doughty beige woman who worked as his appointment setter). Despite his strange but ever present need to make me believe he was straight, it seemed quite apparent that he was not. This conclusion had more to do with the Chip and Dale air freshener dangling from his mirror than his lisp, or his total disregard for his wife.
I have never left any of these hairdressers for any reason other than the following: the salon goes out of business or I move to a new neighborhood. I don’t mind that these people aren’t the best stylists–they are all off-beat charachters who I enjoy meeting, and since the perfect hair cut is so ellusive anyway, I’ll settle for an interesting hairdresser.
My most recent hairdresser came to me when a street marketer prayed on my thrifty side and sold me a discounted promotional offer. I used it last Thursday to cut off my shoulder length hair in order to rock a nice, springtime short cut.
When my new hairdresser met me at the reception area, the first thing I thought was that her makeup was amazing. In the middle of the day, layers of silver, black, and gray melted into each other and sculpted her eye sockets into a metallic, surreal glamour. High arched eyebrows and liquid liner completed the look. Her makeup, tight pony tail, and big hoop earrings invoked a look that seemed to be a cross between a super hero and a sixties film star. It was impossible to imagine her with a bare face.
We were quiet for a time. I think she was suffering from some bad indegestion as noted with the beforementioned burp. But after a time, conversation ensued.
“So, did you enjoy your Easter holiday?” She asked, seating me in her barber chair.
“Oh-we just rented movies and went out for beers. How about you?”
“Well, it’s not my Easter.”
“You don’t celebrate?”
“I’m Greek Orthodox. We have red eggs and no bunny and a different date. I spent everyone else’s Easter Sunday on my couch watching trash TV.”
I was hooked.She smiled and we were quiet again. She pulled strands of my wet hair in front of my eyes and cut the better part of them down to size. Her arched brows furrowed and discomfort flitted about her face. My mind wondered to the pepperoni pizza and I realized that it would be horribly embarrassing for a hairdresser to fart while cutting someone’s hair.
“So, are your parents from Greece?”
“Yeah–I am too. Born and raised.”I guess this explained why I liked to listen to her talk; her words dipthonged between her Chicago accent and her Greek accent, creating a harsh beauty.
“Are you planning on visiting Greece anytime soon?”
“I guess so. It’s just such a different way of life over there–everyone is so chilled out, but that can drive you nuts. It can make you too lazy to do anything with your life. It’s like my grandpa–he’s 86 and he smokes like a chimney, drinks all day, and eats lard 24-7, but he’s as healthy as an ox because the man doesn’t know the meaning of the word “stress.” He’s just chilled out like all the rest of them.”“That sounds nice.”
“I guess. But when you grow up with it the act gets old. My main goal growing up was to get out of Greece. I went to live with a cousin in London when I was a teenager. Then i just traveled around until I was completely broke and too embarrassed to go to my folks. My aunt flew me over to the states. We were in New York at the time. She was the one who helped me with beauty school.”
“Why did you leave New York?”
“A guy. A million years ago.”
She sighed. The exasperation in her voice told me they weren’t together anymore.
My hair was falling about me in rapid succession now.
“Do you like your bangs like this–or shorter?”
I opened my eyes to look at my cropped hair in the mirror.
“A little shorter, please. So–do you think you will stay here in Chicago long term?”
“I don’t know. I mean, its all right here and everything but I just sort of stumbled into it. I just wanted to escape my parents and my hometown and see the world and suddenly I’m past thirty and I still haven’t really made a plan. For now, I guess I’ll stay and just travel a lot. I save everything to travel. I’m going to Ibiza in June.”“Ibiza sounds nice.”
“I’ve not been yet. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”When her cutting was finished, I was happily surprised to find that my hairdresser was actually good at cutting hair, although her styling of it left a bit to be desired. But once I got home and messed it up a bit, I was quite pleased with the results. And better yet, I was pleased to have met such an honest, real, interesting, pizza eating person, especially in such a fake, skin and bones flaunting place as a salon. Hopefully my new hairdresser will come back from Ibiza to tell me about it. If not, I’m sure I’ll find another character to make a mess of my head.
Who does your ‘do?
Comments (11)
ah, my hairdressers are usually not that diverse. They usually have some tragic story involving several children and a deadbeat dad/boyfriend/lover. Your portrayal of Latinas is right on–several of my friends are hispanic and I love the way they are so emphatic and throw “girl” into every other sentence. Nice job with that.
i HATE getting my haircut- they always want to fluff or tease it or put gunk in it so i have to shower as soon as i get home to make it look “normal” again… but i do love the stories! and yours are cooler than mine too. mine are usually horrible stories of divorce, custody wars, and demon brats known to the rest of the world as children!
Was this person named Betty? The last Greek Orthodox person who cut my hair was Betty and she was a little zaftig around the middle. Nice person, not such a great style.
I have long hair and am extremely picky about how people cut it, so I’m probably more like the Latinas, but I’ve had some bizarre hairdressers in my past. Yes, definitely a transvestite, but he was much too pushy and refused to cut my hair the way I asked him too. I guess HE knew better. Then I had an English guy, who was not gay and chatted happily with me about England, where I lived for a year. I also had a wonderful guy (who kept trying to pretend he was straight) who ended up dying of AIDS. It was awful. I went without a haircut for ages until I could get the nerve to find someone else. I really cried about this guy. My hairdresser now is a chunky and happy woman with pierced everything (including tongue, YUCK!) and hair that changes color daily. The guy who does my color is as gay as Christmas and just is nuts for making custom CDs. He’s an Apple junkie, which makes him very cool.
Lynn
Maybe I should get my hair done more often. My hair is a disaster.
I knew my hairdresser from years of sharing local watering holes before finally succumbing to her suggestions to take a seat. I’m glad I did. She guided me first through the long, layered look (as in my picture) to the new, closely cropped look. She and her co-workers are a bit of an estrogen party sometimes, but they usually amuse. They did set me up for became an excruciating strenously mismatched date once … but I will forgive a good hairdresser such things.
Great story, by the way, and excellent use of “dipthonged” as a verb.
geez. I’ve had the same hair dresser since I went the very first time…She used to be my neighbor and now I drive 45 mins just for her to cut my hair. I’m not picky, I just like the way she cuts it and she’s cheap. She did my hair for my prom too. Of course, I only get my hair cut twice a year (at most) so it’s not too bad. Peace Out and Take Care. Autumn
Ha! Dipthonged: Love it. Oddly enough, got my hair cut last night- a definite hatchet job.
great post.
I hesitate to be an ad whore (although I am working in marketing for the time being…), but if anyone in the Chicago area is wondering where they can go to meet this lovely and talented stylist, I’ll indulge you: Ask for Effie at the Anna George Salon at 233 N. Michigan. She is great and I’m sure you will like her to. ::smile::
Ah, so she is not Betty after all. Like Autumn, I think I only actually get my haircut once or twice a year. The rest is color.
Tim: Amazed that you are in an estrogen-rich environment, whereas, almost everyone at my salon is gay. My own stylist is the rare exception. But it’s a palace to hip, with everyone pierced and tatooed. At one point, I thought it was a company rule that they HAD to wear black. But lately color is back (thank God!) and they’ve been sporting some pretty wild attire. I love going in there to gawk.
Lynn
What a wonderful essay! (In reference to Didya_evawonda’s comment about this hatchet job haircut, I can concur that it is slightly uneven, but some people in my office, himself included, have been calling it a “mohawk,” and I beg to differ). Your description of your new hairdresser and the rendering of the dialogue are fantastic. The scene really comes to life.
Once I went to this place a few blocks away for a haircut. It was totally empty and the hairdressers were all hanging out reading magazines. An old woman with a moustache set to work cutting my hair, and managed to leave my hair nearly an inch longer on one side — and she didn’t even tell me any good stories! I think it’s a good rule of thumb that if your hairdresser isn’t more stylish than you are, it’s destined to be a bad ‘do. These people should be our fashion muses, not our grandmothers.
Most of my life, I’ve gotten my hair cut either by my mother, or by a friend of my mother’s who cuts hair in her kitchen. My hair, as a result, was always horribly boring, and I generally looked at least 3 years younger than I was because of it. Last year, I got up the courage finally to go to a barbershop located downstairs in the student center of my university, and requested an appointment with somebody who would be willing to cut almost all my hair off. The girl I got did a great job, everything was even, and none of it was longer than 2 inches. I went back a couple months later to get a trim, and got a different girl who did a crappy job, leaving one side considerably longer than the other. So, a couple days later, I went to a salon at the mall, and had somebody there even it out. I’ve gone there for all my trims since (save one), but I decided that the hairdressers there are pretty boring.
This Monday I’m going to take a wild shot and go back to my mom’s friend to see if she can think of a way for me to have a perm and still have my hair look reasonable (simply because I’ve never had a perm before, and I’ve discovered I like experimenting with my hair, and she’ll do it for cheap). One of these days I’m going to have to go on a hunt for a salon with interesting employees, since it sounds much more enjoyable than any of my haircut experiences thus far. I’d also like to find a stylist who’s willing to do something crazy to my hair when I can’t think up what I want it to look like other than wanting a drastic change.