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Hair Raising

Hair Raising Alison van Diggelen I got my hair cut this afternoon and I’m a new woman in more ways than one. Trisha, my stylist doubles as my therapist. We swap stories of our kids’ exploits, family craziness and such, often convulsing in roll-on-the-floor- laughter while her curious colleagues look on in bemused confusion. She is also so gentle that it feels like a mini head massage. At less than forty dollars a go, it’s a triple bargain: one hour laugh therapy, scalp massage and spiffy new hair cut thrown in. You’ve no idea what a find she is, and how it has transformed my life in the stylist chair, something I used to anticipate with about the relish of a dental visit. I have super baby-fine hair thanks to inheriting dad’s hair genes: he was bald at age 19. Since I was a kid I dreaded hair cuts because of ubiquitous stylists with luscious hair and no nerve endings. These women must have scalps with the toughness of the ugly full-head metal hair-dryers they stick you under. These people have no concept of tenderness as they scrape at my skull with their manicured finger nails while they shampoo and rinse, tonging it tightly; frazzling my hair and burning my ears with hot hairdryers, till tears ooze from my eyes. Why is it they never seemed to notice my tortured face in the mirror? You’re probably asking, why didn’t you say something for heaven’s sake? Well, between you and me, I’ve always been too intimidated by hair salons and stylists. The designer shampoos and conditioners, the elaborate hairdryer attachments; the smell of hairspray; and even the stupid plastic robes they make you put on (is it backwards or forwards?) make me feel panicky. I secretly think some stylists sense my discomfort and enjoy putting me through it. The roots of my problem started when I was a teenager. My whole life I’d been going to Bettina’s, the cheap, no frills and no blow-dry salon, where mothers could stand over their innocent children while the stylist cut their hair just as short as mother dictated. Finally, when I turned thirteen, I was able to go to the trendy hairdressers in the next block and thought I’d arrived in Nirvana. My new stylist made a valiant effort with mountains of mousse and a hot hairdryer, giving me a huge amount of body in my hair. I had suffered to be beautiful but I was so delighted at the result that I paid her a good tip. She shrugged and said, “I’m not sure it was worth it, with your hair, it’ll be flat within about half an hour.” That’s a real confidence booster when you’re a shy teenager with a forest of acne. Since then, I’ve tried out hundreds of salons with little luck. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been abandoned in my chair, just after the shampoo stage, feeling ridiculous as I sit looking in the mirror at my thin hair matted, tousled and dripping around my long face, while my hairdresser is off getting a cup of tea or something. The strong lighting always makes my complexion look as though it’s just been artexed by a four year old. I’ve often considered making a bolt for the door and sheepishly gaze at the other people at various stages of tartification, looking like film stars or at least incredibly wealthy, and imagine they’re looking down from their superior hair-do’s and smooth complexions wondering how on earth I was allowed to enter their hallowed shrine of beauty. It often feels like my stylist is taking so damn long she’s back there with her colleagues, pointing and laughing at my uneasiness, saying, “..and can you believe she wants the Rachel cut, with that limp excuse for hair? She ought to get real and shave it off, give up gracefully.” By the time she comes back to me I’m convinced I’m a lost cause and will be thrown back out on the street. . B.T. (Before Trisha), I’ve always feared upsetting the stylist, thinking she’ll subject me to one of the stylist’s array of tortures: the weird and wonderful silver foil and ammonia treatments; put my head under one of those super hot full-head hair-dryers or even worse, put one of those plastic hats on my head and pull through bits of my hair with that crochet hook. I really can’t think of any worse torture. And some people pay for that? So when I sank back on my chair at Trisha’s salon this afternoon, I felt like a born again salon-goer and am so grateful to have found her. By the way if you’re wanting her number, forget it, she’s booked out to next Christmas. OK, my name crops up a few times in her appointment book but I don’t think twice a week is too extravagant.... after all, she’s a three-stranded bargain. © Siliconmom.com

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