Hiding From the Hair Stylist

I love my stylist.

Estimated reading time: 5 minutes

Seriously. Dawn, the owner of Salon Sartori, is something else!

Not only has she figured out how to contend with me, she also makes my hair look good. Dawn’s cuts last a long time. That makes a good hair stylist to me. For me!

She’s entertaining—a young woman actively involved in her life, in life, volunteering (Make a Wish), living in big circles.

I’m Steadfastly Avoiding My Hair Stylist

It’s not her fault. Sigh. It’s all on me.

I’m there again. At that point with my hair where I can’t decide what to do with it. It’s past my shoulders. Finally. And all I can think about is whacking it off like I did two years ago. I can finally pull it into a pony tail to keep it out of the way when I’m active. Then I think, gosh, it was so cute when it was chin length.

Quick—girlfriends, cousins, sisters—hide from me. I’m about to do that thing again where I send you a series of photos and have you pick which one you like best. Sadly, I don’t keep track every time I ask you to do this, so I don’t know if you pick the same photo each time.

I’ve had a love hate relationship with my hair since I was a child. As the only redhead in a family of full of brunettes, coal-blacks and a couple of understandable blondes, I stood out when little girls really want to blend in. Both sisters had beautiful black hair.

We’re Lucky to have Hair Stylists these Days

We were born before hair products and hair stylist. Yes, there were beauticians, but those ladies were for ladies. Not kids with problem hair.

We wonder why Mom didn’t shave Jackie’s uncontrollable crazy curls. Could have been an option over trying to comb it every day. Still, it was black and Jackie matched the family and most of the kids in the neighborhood. 

There I was with board straight, red hair. Yikes!

I got asked so many times, Where’d you get that beautiful red hair?

How does a little kid answer a question like that?

Once, I heard a parent quip, “From the milkman.” Within the confines of our family the adults thought that was funny. But the one time I answered a waitress that way in a crowded restaurant, I thought my Mother would never come out from under the table.

At five, who knew?

Somewhere in my late teens, hair halfway down my back for the second time, I decided to embrace my red-hair and how it went with my freckles. What the heck, I gave in. There were some heavenly years of enjoyment until I turned 39.

One too many wisecracks from men (some who didn’t even have hair!) about the white hairs creeping into the red made me start down the ever-dooming color-path. When will I quit?

Somewhere between then and now, my hair got out of control. Is it the coloring? Being post-menopausal? Did my hair get a mind of its own? Short, long—it doesn’t matter. My hair does what it wants to do every day.

I give up!

My best intentions don’t control it and neither does having an excellent haircut. Uncle D always—no matter what state my hair is in—asks, “Can’t you do something with that hair?” My husband likes it all the time. He’s no help.

Back to Dawn, the hair stylist from whom I hide.

I’ve given her free rein and she’s succeeded.

Photo I’ve carted in? She’s done a good match.

I’ve known what I wanted or didn’t care what I get.

Presently, I’m hovering between those two states and indecisiveness does not sit well with me. While I understand middle ground, compromise, and fence riding, I’d almost always rather be in one pasture or the other.

So Dawn, dear Dawn. I’m hiding.

Odds are by the time you see me again, I’ll be in a frightening state of Medusa-like locks. Be ready. Look out.

Maybe take a vacation.

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Read: Friendship & a $20 bill