There are only a few people in this world who I absolutely need in my life. There are many I want there, but few I actually need.
My hairdresser is one of them.
Women, the world over, will surely feel my pain when they read the following sentence.
My beloved hairdresser, Angela, has left the country.
Nay. Not only has she left the country. She has left the continent.
Angela has moved to Wales.
When I returned to Toronto after my 6 week break in a warmer climate, Angela was the first person I sought out. I saw her the morning after my return. I spoke to her before I spoke to my children.
My overgrown hair meant that she was my top priority.
She had my wine glass ready when I walked in. Little did I know how much I would need it.
To her credit, Angela ripped the bandaid off quickly. She didn’t beat around the bush. She didn’t placate me with pleasantries or questions about my trip. No, instead she reached into my body, snatched my heart out and crushed it between her well manicured fingers.
She told me she was leaving in one week.
And this isn’t the first time. She left me once before.
It was just over 2 years ago when her wanderlust last hit. She packed up house and home and left for her motherland, England. She stayed away for over a year. The saddest year of my life.
At first I obediently went to her protégée, the one she had carefully explained all my preferences to. The one who held all the formulas.
Sadly, while Vanessa had all the ingredients, she failed to put together a gourmet meal. She was tentative, following all the recipes too closely. She was afraid to take risks. And I’m all about risk-taking.
At least I am when I’m in a fully trusting relationship with my hair Sherpa. This was not that relationship.
Vanessa simply lacked the prowess, that je ne sais quoi, that differentiates a capable hairstylist from a creative master. So I broke up with Vanessa.
And then I wandered aimlessly, formulas in hand, Angela’s descriptions in my head, at the ready:
- My hair is fine, but I have a lot of it.
- My hair is straight for several inches, but then develops a wave.
- My grey is VERY stubborn and needs to have the colour cure in for longer than would seem advisable.
Eventually I found a charming little spa/salon, of the Aveda variety, not too far from home. I was encouraged by the fact that they had a colour technician. Amanda would only ever do my colour. Someone else would do the cutting (Jenn). Experts.
This inspired confidence. I slowly exhaled.
Eventually I grew to like and trust Amanda and Jenn. But it just wasn’t the same. I missed my first love. My Angela.
When she finally returned to Toronto just before Christmas last year, I rejoiced! I wanted to plan a parade! I wanted to cry, the happiest of tears.
Instead I did my happy dance.
Now here I am, coming up on 4 weeks since she last masterfully ran her scissors through my hair.
And I desperately need a cut. (Colour, too, but first things first…)
See, she chopped off all my hair last January. And then she bleached it platinum blonde last March. This hair may be short, but it is super high maintenance.
This is not hair you can just leave alone for 6 weeks or longer. It goes from chic and edgy to frumpy and poofy in the flash of an eye.
And lets not talk about the patchwork quilt-like quality my multicoloured root regrowth creates. White/grey in many spots; nearly black in others. Oh yes, it’s a good look. Said no one, ever.
I need to get a cut. And I need one soon.
But here’s the thing. I have a ‘reunion’ dinner with some ex-colleagues tomorrow night. So here’s my dilemma:
- Take a risk and allow someone new to cut my hair the day before I see people I haven’t seen in 2 years…. – OR –
- Go into the dinner with my unkempt, overgrown and poofy hair
Lest you start poo-poo’ing my dilemma and wondering how bad the results could be. Let me present some evidence.
This is the difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut – on some beautiful people.
If a bad haircut can make these women look …not beautiful, then imagine what one would do to me.
Exhibit A: P!nk
Oh P!nk…I love you so much, but …I can’t with the bowl cut. I just can’t.
Exhibit B: Jennifer Lawrence
My girl JLaw can go from edgy, sexy, glam girl to frumpy no-style news anchor with one bad style.
And finally, Exhibit C: Michelle Williams
Okay, so I admittedly had to cheat with Michelle Williams. Try as I might I couldn’t find a bad hair pic from her pixie cut days. All were super cute. So I had to use an old bob shot. But, you get the idea.
So, friends, what should I do???
Take the risk and address this mop, but potentially wind up like this:
Or wield my flat iron and ply copious amounts of putty to tame the poof?
What say you?
I realize this is a classic #FirstWorldProblem, and that a large portion of the readership may have long dismissed this post as shallow.
I’m vain and shallow. Sue me.
“I think that the most important thing a woman can have – next to talent, of course – is her hairdresser.”