My Hairy Journey to a Great Stylist

There are people in my life who I don’t always take the time to appreciate but whose contributions add to my foundation of happiness and self-esteem. I’m talking about the UPS man, for example, who always seems to deliver my package on time and in one piece; and the guy at the car wash who was thoughtful enough, while scrubbing the interior of my car, to polish the little Buddha who sits on my dashboard. After a quick appreciative glance in the mirror, today I’m offering my thanks and devotion to the latest person who has made me feel good about myself and given me a serious spring in my step: my hairstylist.

After thirty-two years, I have finally found the perfect hairstylist. Try not to be too jealous; this is after decades of torment, disaster, and dye jobs that would make Freddy Krueger flinch. It started when I was nine years old. I asked my mom to cut my hair because I wanted the “feathered” look that everyone else had. Neither my well-intentioned mother nor I, in my young naiveté, knew that my naturally curly hair held within its locks very limited possibilities, and I ended up with big curls sticking straight out of the sides of my head. Braces, glasses, and a mullet do little for a nine-year old’s self-esteem. 

I spent the rest of my life trying to recover. I took people’s advice and let my hair grow long, and with a limited budget, I invested in L’Oreal’s Springing Curls for the duration of my childhood. Granted, I went to high school in the early ’90s, but I have a hard time believing that there was anything remotely attractive about the senior picture my mother still insists on hanging over the couch in the family room. I can barely see my face under all that “spring.”

Feminism in college brought with it the short haircut and the hair straightener, two ideas whose time together, in my life, had come. I moved out to California after college with a little more control over my mane, but not a lot of hope. I sighed with envy at my cool friends’ mastering of the latest looks.