Hair Stylists. That Special Guild.
There is a special guild of service providers I do not dare to stand up to. Those are the hair stylists and massage therapists. Forget about the second, you might not really be the type who likes to get rubbed by total strangers. But you most probably are the kind of person who gets a haircut once in awhile. In that case, this might be of interest to you.
I am the kind of gawl who doesn’t care much for hair. Never dyed it, veeery seldomly brushed it, hence the Facebook Intro: “Oana, your hair always looks crazy!” Well that is me and those words belong to Alin’s 5 year old. I made peace with that almost 10 years ago because of a haircut fail I did not dare to confront.
First remarkable bad experience
My hair was shoulder long, cool haircut, given by a special guy whose nickname was Peesee. Don’t get me started with that! Everything went fine till my hair grew and I went back to Peesee for an encore. Guess what? He didn’t remember how he had cut my hair in the first place.
Me: “Here’s my hair, cut 10cm off it.”
Peesee: “Don’t you want to try something else, something new?”
Me: “Yes, but …”
Peesee: “Cumooooon, it will rock!”
Me: “Well, ok, if it will rock …” (soft spot for rockers since my teens, when I had fallen in love with Freddie’s voice and flamboyant cape; and later on … the color black.)
Second bad experience
Guess what? My new haircut sucked so badly, I went to Peesee’s colleague next day for another try. Result. Shorter hair, female SS troup look. Cried Justin Timberlake a river, but still didn’t stand up to Peesee’s colleague.
Third time’s the charm
Guess what? I had still more hair left and a determination that would move mountains. So there i was, alone on the street, walking and crying, walking and crying. I passed by this hair salon, go in hypnotically, ask if there is somebody, anybody who can help me, tears streaming down. At that moment some eyes point to him. I even forgot his name, Alex or Cata or something, but he was the first hairstylist who ever made love to my hair and did not fuck it. I got my first ever short hairstyle. Even my mom was in awe. She, who always told me how big my face was and how much I would look like Hilary Swank from Boys Don’t Cry if I’d cut my hair short. It was unbelievably cool. A real moment of greatness for my hair.
Glory and despair are just a few months apart
Like all moments of glory, it brushed off. Ever since then I try to relieve it. With different people. No use. All of them are just a faint imitation of him. And even he is a pale imitation of himself. Don’t ask me how, he just never made it cool and easy to take care of as in the beginning.
I never stopped trying to get that perfect haircut that would satisfy my crazy curls or flats. I can understand it too, because my hair is sometimes flat, sometimes curly, who is to understand it? Let alone give it a good cut.
Maybe it’s my fault …
Invariably, after I get a haircut, every time from a different stranger, I never really express my dissatisfaction at the provided service. It’s always an “it’s ok, it looks nice, thank you” kind of a situation. It’s like these hair stylists are some sort of untouchables. I, Oana, who always has something to say and never shies away, am afraid to tell them how wrong they did it. Because what? Because the god of hair will punish me forever with even a crazier head marvel? No! Because I want to keep going to the same salon a second time? What for? Because I am a diplomatic lady? Hell no! What then?
Whatever it is, I wonder if it’s universal. Would be a little comfort.