Hair whore
I cheated on the first stylist who gave me great locks. And then I cheated on everyone I had cheated on her with.
By Amy Traverso
I never thought I'd become a hair whore. I was raised Catholic, in the suburbs.
I had too much guilt, and too little fashion sense.
But then I moved to the city and cheated on the first good stylist I had ever
had -- the only one who had ever given me truly great hair. And then I cheated
on everyone I had cheated on her with. For two years, I never visited the same
salon twice. Each new stylist became the next fix, the steppingstone to a better
life, with more lift in the roots.
I wandered in the wilderness. Then I went crawling back. This is my story. Donna was my upstairs neighbor in a building where everyone but me and my roommate is a hair professional. To me -- a 27-year-old recent transplant to Boston from Albuquerque, N.M. -- her salon was an oasis of chic. The elevator opened up right into the middle of the salon, and everyone wore black. On Saturday mornings, the blonds came in to get their roots done -- a line of perfect tinfoil heads bent over W magazine. I used to dress up just to go there.
Donna took me under her wing, and freed me of my bob 'n' bangs. She asked me
to be her hair model and gave me a 30 percent discount. Under her watch, my
hair spoke for me. It said "stylish" and "smart." It did
not say "I used to wear denim jumpers from Eddie Bauer." Which I did,
with Birkenstocks.
Then I started working at a city magazine, where the only real perks were the
haircuts that we expensed as "research." I was an eager puppy, and
took it as God's gospel truth when a colleague mentioned that Donna's salon
was cool, "but that was five years ago." I ran screaming to the fashion
editor, who packed me off to my first cheat, named James.
James gave a good cut, but he began sticking tongue into his "kiss-kiss-hello"
routine. Then came Giacomo, then Angelo, then Jamie, then Devon, then Christopher,
then Pierre, then Gina. Giacomo was fine, but Angelo was sexier. Angelo was
a terrific flirt and good stylist, but it was too hard to get an appointment
on short notice. Jamie did the most meticulous highlights I'd ever seen, but
he picked the wrong color, according to Devon, who was fabulous, when he wasn't
in Europe. Christopher was no Devon, and Pierre seemed to hate Americans. Gina
just seemed to hate me.
At some point in this cycle, it occurred to me that all I had to show for my
efforts was overprocessed hair. But the wooing was lovely: the earnest discussion
of my "new look"; the head and neck massage; the "you have great
hair" line; the stylist's eagerness in handing me the mirror to see the
back of my head. I felt a little cheap, but I couldn't get past the high of
the courting phase.
All this time, Donna and I were separated by a thin layer of wood floor and
plaster ceiling.
