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.