For the past eight years I have had the same hairdresser. He’s a friend of mine, T, from the old bar days (as opposed to the current, newer bar days) who had his own salon. When T was first starting out I served as the hair model for his hairdresser certification exam. Although I was nodding out during the fingerwave test as a result of his thank you gift (Xanax), he passed with flying colors. From then on T’s never charged me. When we were neighbors we spent almost every day together and occasionally he’d look at me and say, “I wanna try something.” We’d go to the salon and three hours later I’d have a totally new look. New style, new colors … it was fantastic. But then I moved away and the “making an appointment” step was added to the process and things got weird.  

It was one thing to let T style my hair for free when it was spontaneous and, 90% of the time, his idea. Having to call a receptionist and make a date made me feel like I should be paying or that I was taking advantage. I mentioned it to T the last time he cut my hair and he said, “Well, if you want, you could pay.”

I haven’t been back since.

As of last week, it had been a good five inches of dark roots since my last visit with T and I felt I had mourned my free haircut phase long enough. I got a recommendation for a stylist (L) at a salon in my neighborhood and made an appointment. Against my better judgement, I ignored the dusty silk flowers (in “dusty rose” no less) and white wrought iron decor. It’s not like this L chick decorated the place. She just worked there.  

I went in for my appointment and turns out, L actually did decorate the salon. In fact, she was the owner. Because I could not muster my inner Cartman, I answered, “Yes,” when she asked if I was Susan and hoped for the best. K loves her and K’s hair is always adorable. Just sit down. 

Are you cold?  Maybe we should turn on the heat.

She rolls out this portable heater that is covered in an eighth of an inch in millions of tiny, short pieces of hair — all held in place by a good lacquering of hair products.  Tabatha would ream you for that.  And look at that wall.  FILTH! 

You know who Tabitha is, right?  

Tabitha is the star of Bravo’s, “Tabitha’s Salon Takeover.” The premise of the show is that struggling salons turn their keys over to Tabitha for one week and she completely revamps the entire business, from decor, to accounting, to managing the stylists.  And, Tabitha does NOT put up with filth in a salon. Tabitha believes that a salon is supposed to be a place for clients to relax and be made to feel and look more beautiful.  You can not feel and look beautiful when you are surrounded by clumps of hair and stained chintz.

I completely agree with Tabitha.  And I admit that I had a very hard time not taking note of the overall grossness of the place.  The walls had been white at some point, but now were covered in years’ worth of footprints left by former clients.  The silk flowers’ colors were practically indistinguishable through the layer of dust.  When I got there L was on the phone.  Then she apologized and said that she had to return a couple of calls.  Fifteen minutes later she asks me to get in the chair.

K loves her.  Wait until the hair is done.  Then decide. See how I try? And then L started talking to me about what she wanted to do with my hair and how fun and great it was going to be for spring.  ”I like the length, but I think you need it to be more choppy … layers is what I’m thinking.  And let’s go a little blonde!  It’ll be great for the change in seasons!”  She handed me the box of foils and started my color.  My hope renewed, I tried to make small talk.

Do you watch Tabitha’s Salon Takeover?

(A little defensively) I don’t watch television. But if I did I might watch that show.

Oh.  Well, I was just thinking about an episode where a salon ran out of foils and they actually used plain aluminum foil for someone’s highlights.  

(Very defensively.) Well, sometimes you just run out of foil. It’s a fact. Nothing you can do about it.  I think she’s just being obnoxious for television.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with foiling, foil made specifically for hair coloring is thinner, a different texture and is critical for making sure colors don’t blend or bleed.  The regular aluminum foil you’d use to line your toaster with, does not.  Tabitha gave a whole lecture about it. For those of you who may not be familiar with me, I live for television and I can not abide people talking shit about it.

…

I had been in the chair all of fifteen seconds and we had run out of things to talk about.  L gave it another shot.

So Susan, what do you do?

I’m a bartender at Superfine in Dumbo.  Have you been?  It’s amazing.

Yeah? That’s cool. I went there once. The food was great but …

Then she went on a three minute rant about how she had to wait for her food and how she felt the staff didn’t handle the matter properly and on and on and on ….

…

Before the third piece of foil (the right kind, thank god) was in my hair, we hated each other. We both tried desperately to pretend we didn’t. Then the phone rang. And she answered it. And then call waiting came in and she answered that. And then her cell phone announced a text message. And she responded to that. When she finally came back to my hair, she apologized.  ”I’m sorry. I’m trying to buy a condo and I’m getting a divorce.” O-kay.

Six pieces of foil later her cellphone rings. As she’s trying to see who it is, she slops some bleach onto part of my hair that should not have had bleach on it. L gets a squirt bottle to try to rinse it out. L is oblivious to the water and bleach rolling down the side of my face until I ask for a towel. “I’m sorry.” She grabbed a couple of Kleenex. One to wipe my face with and one to shove in between foils to absorb the water. Oh my god.  This is going to be the worst color job of my life. L answers a couple more phone calls (I swear I am not exaggerating) and tries once again to have a conversation. “Where are you from?”

We discover that we’re both from the South and we talk for a while about that and we work our way around to high school reunions.  

I had planned to go but all of the emails were comments like, “What will we do with the kids while the parents are out front having martinis?”  I mean.  I don’t even drink, I don’t understand them.  I wanted to respond that I’d be in the back with the kids teaching them yoga or something.  I just can’t be around people like that.

Jesus Christ, she’s a hippie. 

If I’m going to spend money to travel, I’m not going to hang out with a bunch of drinkers in Alabama.  I’m going to go to my ashram in the Bahamas.

Well, that explains the hare krishna music.

Ok!  Time to rinse this out.

She sits me at the sink and the phone rings.  And she answers it.  ”Hey Lily!  Yeah!  That sounds great Where do you wanna have dinner?” She talks to Lily with one hand while she sprays my head, and half of my face, with cold water.  Pulling foils out with her other hand, while simultaneously holding the hose, she shoots a stream straight down my back.  ”Ok Lily!  See you then!” 

“I’m sorry about that.”  I struggled for the towel so that I could avoid getting swimmer’s ear.  ”Oh!  Did I get you wet?”  She leaned over for shampoo and her mass of hippie hair covered my face. I can not believe this. After I realized that she wasn’t going to do anything about it, I moved it aside. “Oh!  I’m sorry.  My hair is in your face.  Well, that’s what happens with long hair.” And she leaned back over for conditioner … without moving her hair.

I was there for two hours.  During that time she answered the phone no less than 12 times, told me she was getting a divorce about five times, talked shit about the things I love … television, Superfine, drinking.  She put her smelly hippie hair in my face, made me listen to her subversive hippie music, soaked my face, my shirt and gave me truly the worst color job since the time I used the frosting kit with the cap.

The haircut was no better.  There was no cute, no choppy, no layering other than my bangs. When it was time for her to dry it, she grabbed her round brush.  Then she got a comb and pulled out about 3 years worth of hair from the bristles.  In front of me. I was defeated, I felt gross and I had the hair of a midwestern housewife, but I was in the home stretch and I didn’t care anymore.  I just wanted L to finish so I could pay and walk out of her life forever.  I looked at my streaked, blotchy frosted hair and attempted to seem happy with it.

How much?

$160.

I gave her the money and started to leave.  And then the final kick in the teeth.

I really like it Susan.  You look like you should be on a soap opera.

Sarah Vowell has been stolen and I am pissed. Mainly because I’ve been wanting to steal her myself and I missed my opportunity.

See those goofy pictures on the shelf in the background? Those are the official Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company employee slash volunteer slash student headshots. Everyone who becomes involved with the writing center at the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company gets one. No matter whether you’re there on a field trip or as a volunteer or as a drop-in tutee, you get a headshot. But only if you put on the glasses. The glasses serve as a prop used to signify all-around smartypantsness. According to your mission at the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company, your headshot serves different purposes.  If you’re there for a writing workshop, it’s the Author’s Photo for your book.  Participating in the sitcom writing field trip?  Your headshot is put on your official Television Director business card. They’re really fun, and the kids hate them.  At least initially.

As the photographer for a recent writing workshop, I met each student at the door.  ”Hey!  Welcome to the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company! Today you’ll be writing and publishing a book so we’re going to need the need a shot for the book cover.” I’d hand them the glasses and have them sit down. Glasses in hand, they’d look into the camera and smile, waiting for the flash. “Awesome! You look great!  Now, could I get you to put the glasses on?”  

Being teenagers, the majority of them were horrified by the thought of looking stupid in front of their classmates. Reluctantly putting the glasses on, girls flashed their best Glamour Shot poses hoping to override the geekiness. Boys attempted to look tough while proclaiming how stupid the glasses were to make sure everyone knew they were way too cool to enjoy the goofiness.

It wasn’t until the headshots were printed out and being put onto their bookcovers that they liked them. Comments went  from, “Man. Do I really have to wear these stupid glasses? They make me look retarded.” to, “Oh my god girl, you totally look like a writer!,” and, “Hey miss!  Can I get one more picture?”

Over the years, various shots have been mounted to foamcore and displayed throughout the center. They’re mostly shots of the students, but here and there you’ll find photos of adults who have come through. Adults like Sarah Vowell.

Sarah Vowell was on the first display you pass after entering the center. Bottom left corner of the first shelf on the left. Every time I went in to the center, I checked on her.  ”Hey Sarah!,” I’d think. Sometimes I’d even wink at the picture as if it were actually Sarah Vowell sitting there and not just a 2-D image from an HP Inkjet.   (I would never actually wink at the real Sarah Vowell, but in my fantasies I like to pretend I’m super-confident — like Joey Tribbiani.  ”Hey Sarah.  How you doin’?” [wink]

Sarah Vowell made me crazy.  I wanted to take her home but knew I couldn’t deny others the opportunity to flirt with her photo.  Certainly I wasn’t the only person who had volunteered for 826 NYC just to get closer to the McSweeney’s crew.  Yes. I enjoy helping the children and all that crap, but really, my main focus right now is volunteering enough time to warrant my attendance at the volunteers’ barbecue next month with Dave Eggers.  So, when I kept my self from stealing Sarah Vowell, I was thinking of all the other volunteer/groupies who got the invitation to the Barbecue and thought, “Well, it’s about time this volunteer stuff paid off.”  

I wanted Sarah Vowell so much. Often I contemplated the best way to sneak it out of the center. I thought of how I’d sit on the sofa underneath the shelf it was on, clumsily put on my coat and knock Sarah Vowell into my open bag.  Or maybe I’d just come in early before the staff came upstairs from the publication dungeon and just take it.  Then, last Monday I walked in for a tutoring session and when I turned to wink at Sarah Vowell, she was gone.  The certain victim of some other geeky McSweeney’s groupie, Sarah Vowell in all her nerdy glory is missing.  And my chance to steal a little piece of geek memorabilia is gone with her.  All because I was trying to be a nice person.

Being nice is for suckers.

When I picked the guitar up, I felt this wave of emotions overtake my mind … guilt, dread, defeat. I knew I should drop it, walk away. I hated it, but I wanted it. Inside my head I heard her strong, persuasive voice urging me on. I call her Sassy.

Come on, Susan. Let’s do it. 

And in a whisper that crescendoed into a deafening scream, I she began singing:

Dug dug-ahh, dug dug-ah, dug dug-ah, dug dug-ah, dug dug-ah, dug dug-ah, dug dug-ah, dug dug-ah.

DUN! Dun dun dun! 

Dun dun dun! 

DUN DUN DUUUUUUNNNNNN! 

I thought, “I bet this is how Shifty felt when he started his last bender.”

My left hand is a claw and my right shoulder is temporarily (I hope) frozen into position. My fingers are pruny even though I haven’t bathed for two days. For the last week, with the exception of two bartending shifts, making dinner a couple of times and watching Sober House, I have been on the couch playing Rock Band 2.  Our best song is, “Eye of the Tiger.”  

I say “our” to refer to my band, southern discomforts. Sassy, my obsessive, power hungry alter-ego, is their lead guitarist. We‘ve made over two million dollars touring North America, Asia, Europe and Australia. We’ve earned roadies, tour busses, private planes. Sassy has a closet full of clothes and shoes.

Just yesterday we were dubbed, “Immortal Rock Gods,” by Rolling Stone Magazine.  

You’d think that would be enough for a video game rock band. But it’s not. Not for Sassy. She needs more. With every accomplishment or award she gains, she learns that there is yet a higher achievement to make. Won a tour bus? Great! Now you can play for the RV. Earned two kids to put up posters and hand out fliers? Awesome. Have you met Lurlene? Lurlene is a professional publicist who can provide more opportunities than you can imagine.

It’s maddening. I haven’t been out, I haven’t been productive, haven’t written, haven’t talked to anyone … found myself crossing my legs trying not to pee on myself so that I could make it through the solo on “Mississippi Queen.”

I exaggerate a bit (except for the leg crossing — that really happened) but truly. I have a problem. My left thumb is swollen and I’m typing at half speed because of the pain in my wrists.  Thank Smoking Baby the game’s a loaner.  I borrowed it from my neighbor last week under the guise of wanting to cheer up a recently laid-off friend.  I did think my friend would like it, but let’s be honest. I’ve been plotting to get my hands on that game since I discovered they had it about four months ago.  

Today, it’s going back.

As soon as I got up this morning, I started taking everything apart.  I dismantled the drum kit, unplugged the microphone, found the cases for the discs. I packed things away into the duffel bag; the drum pedal, the sticks, the Fender.  I got down to just the game system (with the disc still in it) and Sassy’s guitar.  I picked the guitar up and approached the X-Box with every intention of unplugging it.

Then she started, “Dug dug-ahh, dug dug-ah, dug …”

And I thought, ”I bet this is how Shifty felt when he started his last bender.”

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

Location: 13th Street between 7th & 8th Avenues

And in the front seat?