I lost a human being recently.
Actually, if I’m honest, I’ve lost many human beings recently. Men, who seemed so promising, simply stopped calling (again and again this has happened: I try not to take it personally). “Friends” who I lost custody of in the divorce (it might make me a terrible person but I miss very few of them and if you know why you understand). A husband (again, not missed, again that makes me sound like a terrible person).
But the most alarming loss of all has been that of my hairdresser.
I have lost my hairdresser.
Stella called me a few months ago to let me know that she was leaving the spa where I’ve been seeing her for over a decade. She told me the name of the new salon, the location, the phone number. I wrote it all down, vowing to follow the woman who has been cutting my hair for over a decade.
And then I lost the piece of paper.
I. Lost. The. Piece. Of. Paper.
It’s probably only women who can understand the horror of this situation. If you are a man I’ve probably already lost you. Let me try to explain the situation…
Stella has been cutting my hair for 10 years. She knows me. I’ve seen her through 2 pregnancies (hers), a wedding (mine), a divorce (also mine), extreme renovations (both). Realistically I have had 30-40 visits with this woman over the past 10 years. That’s more then I see some of my closest friends.
The day of my wedding Stella called at 6:30 am to tell me that her husband had been in an accident the night before and that she had been in the ER overnight. She had to get back there. She had a toddler and a new baby at home. She had opened the spa at 6:30 in the morning so that she could do my hair. I jumped out of bed and rushed in where she had breakfast waiting. My marriage might not have worked out… but my hair? My hair look freaking amazing that day. It took my sister 2 hours and an entire bottle of conditioner to take it apart the next night.
Stella understands my ambivalence towards my hair. She understands that the idea of putting products into it grosses me out. She understands that I will leave the house without drying it, styling it, (often without even brushing it). She knows not to suggest highlights or lowlights or whatever the hell women do to their hair. She knows that I love my hair but I refuse to do anything to it. It is its own entity and can do what it will.
I spent the past couple of afternoons calling all of the salons in the Walnut Grove area asking if they had a stylist named Stella. No one did.
I’ve been avoiding this decision, but this afternoon, staring at myself in the mirror of the staff bathroom, I realized that I had left it too long. The end of my hair are scraggly, split, and sticking out at odd angles. I cannot wait to find Stella. I have to let her go.
I need a haircut.
So with great trepidation I went on Yelp and found a recommended hair salon a block from my home. I booked an appointment for after work on Friday.
For the first time in 10 years someone new is going to cut my hair.
This is extra risky because I have a date on Friday night. (So, J, if you are reading this… I apologize in advance if I show up looking like a 60-year-old teacher with the traditional blonde bob. Or a teenager who cut her own hair because she was mad at her Mom. Or… possibilities are horrific and endless. I’ll try not to cry over a bad hair cut at dinner.) 😉
I have been dreaming lately of braids. Buns piled high on my head. Curls. Handfuls of hair that I can play with and mold and enjoy. It’s girly but I can’t wait to have my hair long again. So the new stylist will be threatened, on pain of death, about cutting off too much. (In reality my version of threatening people is to shyly ask that they please don’t cut off too much, watch as too much gets cut off, and then go home and cry about it.)
I can’t believe that I lost another human being. I really need to stop being so damned careless.
Pray for my hair y’all.