This platform is full of gentlepeople and scholars writing about current affairs, philosophy, and politics. And here I am in my claustrophobic little world of small thoughts and short words. “Oh, I wonder where my old classmate went". “Ah, have you ever heard about bananas?”
Fuck it. So I got a haircut.
Back in 2018 I met Lisa, my hair’s soulmate, who took the form of a petite introverted East London hairdresser. Until then nobody seemed to understand that cutting my hair like it’s straight will result in a dead composer aesthetic. (God they didn’t pull any punches with these portraits did they? This can’t be what a person looked like? He’s a famous musician for fuck’s sake, show some respect.)
And then we found Lisa. She knew what to do. She didn’t ask if I wanted my hair straightened. She dried it gently and gave each curl a personal hug. Then she went over my dry hair with her scissors to see how it all was, like an obsessed gardener. I would sit there delighted, feeling like a very pretty shrub.
She was the first person in the world to say: yeah, I think a fringe would work on you. “Your face isn’t the right shape.” “It’s too curly, it’ll just look messy.” That’s what I heard all my life. All I ever really wanted was a short bob with a fringe. “Yeah, I think a fringe will look cute!” Said Lisa. I became so irresistible with a fringe that a month later I was already 8 weeks pregnant.
And then, disaster! The salon joined the long list of casualties of the pandemic. Not to make it all about me, but… very inconvenient. Thankfully this isn’t the olden days. Mozart would have probably struggled to find someone who could do his hair just the way he likes it (to each their own) in the face of such adversity, but I am a modern woman wielding a smartphone. I located her personal instagram within minutes and followed it, which paid off a couple of weeks later when she posted the details of her new professional residence.
It was a blissful year for the hair but after Mila’s birth it flipped on me. It not only fell out (shoutout to my funky thyroid), it also fully changed its structure. It’s not even curly any more. Ah, the many fuckeries of childbirth. Now that my hair wasn’t curly I felt it was hard to justify leaving a small baby to go to Southbank just for a haircut. There is also a hair salon right outside. In case of emergency Julz could zipline the baby down through the window right to my seat. That sort of convenience is hard to beat.
There were a couple of problems. First being I’ve never heard of their haircuts getting anyone pregnant. Second problem was that the only available member of staff was a man. I guess it’s not really a problem but I never had a man cut my hair before. Having a haircut is already a blended soup of social anxiety and my natural awkwardness; being around other women makes me feel more at ease. Sometimes a woman just needs another woman. And for me that time is while having a haircut.
Like I said, things with my hair aren’t good. We try not to think about it. On a very good day it just looks like any other stupid hair. Straight, unimpressive, thin. On a bad day I wear a hat. Listen to me, you don’t know about mental fortitude until you’ve gone through weeks and weeks of bad hair days without any respite.
He started out strong by not giving me a specific place to put my bag. I put it on the floor, then on my chair, then I hung it on the arm of the chair, thought no, hair would fall right into it, so I put it on the floor again. He asked me what I wanted him to do with my hair. What I wanted to say was can you please make it look like I have more hair. Instead I said something else, don’t remember what, which, amazingly, resulted in him producing a photo of a haircut that looked exactly like what I wanted. I thought, that’s nice. It won’t look this nice on me, but it’s nice. I thought, sadly, that he has this vision in his head of what he wants to do but it’ll definitely end up looking bad, and he’ll probably be really disappointed. Great. Add new hairdresser to the list of people I’m bound to disappoint.
(Is there a single person in the world who looks good with wet hair? What the hell were they thinking in the 90s?)
As he was preparing to dry my hair I felt like it was still a little too short. What I look for in haircuts is shock value. If it’s short I want it as short as it goes, but it’s very hard for me to correct a hairdresser. Like I’ll tell them what I want and they’ll just laugh at how I could even suggest such a stupid thing. Tell him you want it shorter, tell him you want It shorter, tell him you want it shorter. You’ll feel like an idiot if you say nothing and end up hating it. I mustered up all the courage I had left after the whole bag situation and said:
-It looks really nice, but I thought it would be shorter.
-Oh, I’m not finished yet.
Goddamit.
What Lisa said after haircuts when I complained about texture or hair loss was: it’s not so bad! It’s really still quite thick, look. When this haircut was done he said: you can pay at the desk. Just kidding, he said that a good scalp mask and an oil will get it back into shape in no time. (Also to pay at the desk.) So I’m going into 2023 hopeful about my hair, and many other things, despite the better judgment of every expert out there. At the end of the day who can you really trust in life, if not your hairdresser?
***
I hope you had a great holiday and Happy New hair, I mean year! I’m so grateful to have you here and have such wonderful plans for next year. When you read this I feel like someone is showing up for me in a very meaningful way, and the world isn’t so small any more. Even if the words are still short.
See you soon!
Very funny! Thank you.
"Until then nobody seemed to understand that cutting my hair like it’s straight will result in a dead composer aesthetic. (God they didn’t pull any punches with these portraits did they? This can’t be what a person looked like? He’s a famous musician for fuck’s sake, show some respect.)"