Thursday, April 16, 2009

Price Choppa

I think I may have finally found a decent hairdresser. My hair had gotten loooooooooong and, unfortunately, ratty. It was contributing to my generally feeling like sh*t. I found out there's a place near my apartment that cuts hair for 35 bucks, which is a bargain around here.

My hairstylist was a lovely Italian lady who spent the first 10 minutes trying to sell me a couple of different products. "This is from one peanut tree in Morocco," she told me, of a hair product she also rubs on her body. "Feel my skin!" I felt her skin. Then it was on to another product which, in all honesty, made my hair a little greasy.

Then she shared, as hairdressers and people I've never met before in general are wont to do, intimate details of her life. Not super-intimate, but I did find out she'd grown up around here, gone a little wild, and been shipped off to Florida. Now she's studying sociology and law and told me she learned from studying the former that they used to chop off peoples heads if their eyes were too close together.

But it's what she didn't say that sold me: No snarky comments about my home-dyed hair, no snide remarks about how long and meh I had let it get. I told her to chop off what she had to; she cut half a foot. I'm OK with that. She told me I should get my hair cut every three months and I thought, you know what? I'll gladly come back and see you in three months. I think part of it was surrender, for me. I'm never going to find the perfect hairdresser. But I'll gladly give my money to a lovely local Italian Catholic girl who does a fine job on hair and has a good outlook on life.


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