The cruelest cut

It was one of those perfect sensuous moments. Fresh flowers were scattered throughout the room, lightly fragranced candles cast an intimate glow, smooth French jazz played softly in the background. Loving hands were massaging me, anointing me with an intoxicating organic lavender-rosemary essence, fingers pressing with perfect pressure on all the right spots.

The vibe was right for sharing, and so I did — my fears, my most intimate secrets, my dreams, all heard and validated with kindness, not judgment. I felt safe enough to ask for what I really wanted, and I actually got it.
When I finally was ready to go home, I not only felt relaxed and revived, but I looked so much better, too. It does that to you, you know.

So is it any wonder, then, why I’m so in love ...

... with my hair stylist?
I’m not sure if men have the same experience with their stylists, but for women, a hair stylist is more than someone who just cuts and colors your hair. She’s your confidante, your therapist, your BBF (that’s best best friend, for those of you who don’t have kids).

And I’ve come to realize something as more of my friends have gotten divorced — no woman in her right mind would dump her hair stylist as quickly as she might dump her lover or hubby. And we always seem to be much more forgiving of her mistakes than a guy’s. We’ll stay with her even when she occasionally lets us down.

I can’t say we always do the same with our men.

Some of my friends have had the same hair stylist for more than 13 years — longer than their marriages!
I’ve been going to mine for about eight years. Not only does Rosie know all my split ends and the way my hair curls in the most unfortunate place; she also knows all the dirty little details of my marriage bust-up, who I’m sleeping with now and my single-mother woes. And I get some interesting dish from her as well — who’s doing her personal trainer, who got a nip and tuck, who’s about to kick the old man out.
That’s why it’s so painful to break up with one — almost as painful as a romantic split, perhaps even worse.

Sadly, I had to do that once. Thirteen years later, it still feels awkward whenever I pass by the salon.
I’d been going to Jade for about four years. She was a tall, free-spirited Daryl Hannah-ish blonde. Her own hair was atrocious — a cross between the lead singer of A Flock of Seagulls and Madonna in her “Like a Virgin” days — but she was quirky, sassy and funny. I was a new mom and she was single, and I loved listening to all her dating adventures.

But whenever I looked at my hair, it never looked quite right. Often it was so uneven I had to tilt my head to feel balanced. At first, I lumped it with all the other changes I’d gone through as a new mom — my feet got bigger, my breasts got smaller and my gums were sensitive. But then I finally figured it out — she couldn’t cut hair for crap. In my heart, I knew we were done, but how could I tell her?

At first, I strung out the cuts — from four weeks to five to six, until I was seeing her about every three months, hitting the $12 places in between. I started making excuses; money was “tight,” I was just so busy with the baby, the baby-sitter flaked on me and so on until I just stopped going.

Then one day as I passed by, baby in stroller on our daily walk, Jade saw me through the salon window and came running out. “Hey, I never see you anymore! When are you coming in?”

“Oh, that’s so funny!” I said, nervously. “I was just thinking I was due for a cut. I have to look in my date book. I’ll call you.”

I couldn’t believe it, but I was using a classic male I’m-just-not-that-into-you line — on my hair stylist! Of course I never did call, and from that day on, I knew I could never walk on the north side of the street after 10 a.m. Tuesdays through Saturdays.
I had dumped her, and I had taken the easy way out. I disappeared … just like a few men I have since dated.

But at some point you realize that any relationship that’s going to go past the surface level needs two things: trust and forgiveness. I feel bad that Jade had to be the fall gal in that, and so when I started seeing Rosie, I decided she’d be the one I’d commit to.

It hasn’t always been easy. Rosie has made some mistakes. Like the time I asked her to add a few reddish streaks in my hair, and I ended up with big, wide swaths of reds and blonds. I looked like something you’d see on a Jean Paul Gautier runway.

“Um, I’m not so sure I like this,” I told her, in as loving a way as I could.
“You look great. Edgy. Try it.”

So I walked out into the world on faith alone. Oddly enough, I did get a few compliments, but I still didn’t feel like zebra-head was the look I was aiming for.

“Rosie, I can’t do this anymore,” I pleaded on the phone during my lunch hour.
“OK, come in and I’ll fix you.”

And like all relationships, the biggest lessons are learned the hard way. About a year ago, in between my foilings, I spritzed on a little Sun In as I worked under the summer sun in my garden. But instead of the “natural blond highlights” I’d hoped for, I looked brassy, and my hair was drier than Mount Tam in the fall.
The next time I showed up for a trim, Rosie eyed my hair suspiciously.

“I sure hope your love life is doing better than your hair,” she said. “It’s a mess.”
I kept my face in my Cosmo, pretending to be engrossed with “Ten Sex Tips Every Woman Must Know That Will Drive Him Wild.”

“Kat, did you do something to your hair?”
“Um, I don’t think so,” I mumbled.

“You must have! You look horrible. I’m going to glam you up.”
“OK, OK, I confess. I had an incident with Sun In.”

“Kat, you know things are really bad when you lie to your stylist!”

She was so right. I am learning. Be honest with the people who hold your beauty in their hands. And if you’re going to dump someone — be it a stylist or a lover — don’t just disappear.