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Sunday, August 27, 2006

Breaking up with my Hairdresser

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A while back, when I decided to quit pretending to be a blonde, I asked for recommendations for a good colorist. And because if there is anything as beautiful as her perfect glowing skin, it’s her hair, I jumped when Rachel recommended her hairdresser, Ann Marie.

It was love at first single process.

The last time I saw Ann Marie, we got a little ballsy and dyed my dark honey hair a deep chestnut. I’ve always been a fan of the fair skin/dark hair look and so I was immediately taken with it. I thought we both felt that way. But turns out, I was wrong.

On Saturday, after the dye was rinsed off, Ann Marie began blowing my hair dry. As she ran her fingers through my hair, I saw her make a face in the mirror.

“It’s a lot darker.”

“Same as last time, I think,” I answered, already feeling a bit defensive.

“And you like it better this way, huh?”

Um, what? Her tone was such that I almost felt as though I should apologize for the dye job she just did.

“Yeah, I do.”

“I guess it’s pretty in its own way.”

She may as well have said, To each his own. I was stunned stupid. I mean, I know your hairdresser is supposed to guide you toward better hair, but she’s supposed to do it tactfully, and in the end, support your decisions. The way a friend would – only, a friend who gets a hundred dollars an hour to do so. Instead of the supportive friend vibe, I was getting jealous high school rival.

And then as if it wasn’t bad enough, Ann Marie went for the throat.

Words like dry and heavily damaged and under-conditioned seeped out as she finished trimming and shaping. Was I sure I didn’t want more than a trim? Yes, I was sure.

“Well, you’ll cut it off when you’re ready.”

Now, if there’s one thing I have always been confident in, it’s the condition of my hair. I was sporting shiny locks long before Pro-V was a twinkle in Pantene’s eye. I may get fat just by looking at ice cream, I may have problem skin, but out of mercy, the sweet baby jesus rained down his blessings and gave me one nice head o’ hair (Except for the entirety of the 80’s. Screw you Olgivie home perms.). But after a few of Ann Marie’s choice comments, I was no longer so certain. She even went so far as to hand me a pamphlet titled, It’s not your hair that’s the problem, it’s how you treat it.

I was on the verge of a vanity breakdown. I could hear Amy March gasping, “Your one true beauty!” as she surveyed the wreck of my once-lovely hair. I left the salon ready to burst into tears. “I have substandard haaaaair!”

Which is, of course, nuts. It’s the same hair I had three days ago, hair that I had been perfectly content with. And ordinarily, I’m more than content with Ann Marie. Ordinarily I’m singing her praises. Maybe it was just an off day and I should give her another shot. Or maybe, we’ve just grown apart. But if that’s true, I think I’d have preferred to hear, “We just don’t want the same things anymore.” You know, as opposed to, “You have bad hair.”

Even Queen Latifah wouldn’t have pulled that shit.

*Do we even still call them that? In the South, we sure do. I can’t help feeling that this is like the stewardess/flight attendant thing and I’ve just set myself up to get a rash of hate mail from angsty hair care professionals.