I see my hairdresser every six months or so. She’s wonderful but expensive, and I’m broke.
Between cuts, my hair goes through every stage of growing out, and usually just gets to the point where people start to say ‘Gee it’s looking long, I like it,’ before I go back and get it all chopped off and start the whole thing over again.
And today was that day!
My hairdresser is ace. She loves what she does and she’s good at it. This year she had occupationally-induced carpal tunnel, which was very painful and required surgery. She said she was terrified at the thought of not being able to cut hair anymore because it’s the only thing she wants to do in life.
I love meeting people like her, who have totally given their work lives over to their passion.
She remembers what side my hair parts on, which bits stick out funny at which length. She knows how to make the most of its natural quirks and oddities. She knows what kind of cut I like, how short she can take the fringe, how much asymmetry she can safely introduce.
When she works she’s focused, precise, getting every tiny detail just right.
I trust her, which is essential, given she’s holding all the sharp objects.
And I like her.
Whenever we see one another we catch up on what’s been happening in the past six months. This gets reduced to the big stuff: her mother’s cancer, my son’s birth, her big overseas trip, me finally finishing my book (which she has been hearing about for years!).
I’ve been going to her for almost ten years now, so we know the shape of one another’s lives, or at least of those bits that are shared in such a context.
She’s not a friend, but there’s an intimacy and longevity to our relationship that feels meaningful, at least to me.
I left the salon today in the rain, feeling lighter, smelling all kinds of delicious, and grateful that her surgery has worked!
Thank you Fi!