Hair Whore
Sometimes I'd open my front door, only to duck back in when I heard her coming
down the stairs. I pretended not to see her walking her dog in the park next
door. Sometimes I awoke late at night to hear her making love to her husband.
One time I heard her crying. Then another hairdresser moved in downstairs. Her
ceaseless rave music -- the same music that plays in every salon, everywhere
-- came up through the floorboards like some techno telltale heart. I was a
pathetic, haunted creature. And my hair looked bad.
It all came to a head when I ran into two former stylists in Provincetown --
and they were together. Even worse, I couldn't remember one guy's name, though
I did remember Pierre. "Quick!" I shrieked to a friend. "Hide
my hair!"
After a week on the beach, my cheating tresses had been ridden hard and put
away wet, and in my panic, I figured the least I could do was try to look nice.
But the truth was, I knew my game was up. My past was catching up with me.
People in recovery programs call this part hitting bottom. I was starting to
believe that the stylists could tell I was a hair whore just by looking at me,
and my last few cheats were tainted by guilt before I even sat down in the chair.
"Do whatever you want," I'd say, gesturing helplessly at my head.
The honeymoon was over before it even started.
Being a run-of-the-mill lapsed Catholic, I think my last confession was lisped
through a retainer. But old habits die hard, and I began to think that I might
be able to wash away my sins if I could arrange a heart-to-heart with a former
stylist. Maybe I could make amends, or be absolved. I called Pierre, the American
hater.
He looked great. His hair was longer and fanned out around his face in a way
that made him look like a magnificent disco-dancing lion. He also seemed a lot
nicer. In one gush, I explained about Donna, and how I wanted to give up my
game, and how even though I really liked his work, she was the one for me. I
didn't mention the run-in in Provincetown. But I did ask him how he liked my
hair. "It's nice," he said. "I like it. It's a low-maintenance
cut, right?"
I also asked him about hair whores. Did they, I, hurt his feelings? "Yes
and no," he said. "Only when they keep praising you and then all of
a sudden go. But otherwise, I'm over that."
Pierre said that he only felt like a client was "his" after four or
five appointments. But he figured his lapsed clients probably felt worse than
he did. "I think these hair whores you refer to are looking for a better
life," he said. "Something they have pictured in their minds that
isn't possible. Something that doesn't exist."
I went back to Donna five months ago. She's at a hot new salon now, one so pure
white and minimalist that you don't even see a hairbrush if it isn't in someone's
hand. Donna said she was glad to see me, apologized for her yippy dog and offered
to feed my cat when I go away. She cut, I cooed. She charged me full price.
About the writer
Amy Traverso is a writer and editor living in Boston.
Other Pages
Hair Whore 1
Hair Whore 2
