anywho, i’m happy with my current hair stylist, but since we both moved, it’s no longer convenient¹ for me to travel to her shop. i’ve been doing it myself² because having someone else do my hair feels too much like cheating.  call me crazy, no call me loyal. as if she would know.

however, one friday, the urge hit and i had to have my hair done now.  i ran out of the house like i was late for an appointment, only i didn’t go to my regular salon, i went to where my SIL gets her hair done. maybe it was my job location but i’ve always gone to a dominican hair salon and this place was a dominican hair salon. great.

i walked in and asked for a perm, cut³ trim and a color rinse.  i was told to have a seat and someone would be right with me. uh huh. right.

now in some dominican hair salons, your name is gender based.  if you’re a female, your name is mommy, if you’re a male your name is poppy.  after years of answering to Bah la rie, calling me mommy now is like taking two giant steps backwards in a game of mother may i.

while i wait on the next available stylist i pretend to read and then I hear it, “mommy come”. i know someone is talking to me because i’m the only one who doesn’t have a towel on their head.  i’m so anxious to get started that i want to run and strap myself to the chair and say, “put it in” ⁴, but instead i do the “you talkin’ to me i’m so surprised hand on my chest gesture”.

i calmly walk over to my assigned station and about 25 minutes later i’m moved from the operating chair to the recovery area. the perm was a success, it just needs to be washed out.  the shampoo girl preps me by stuffing towels around my collar and then she drapes a cape around me from the back, only the velcro doesn’t hold.  so she tells me to do the job the velcro won’t and hold the two openings tightly around my neck.

like an obedient fool, i’m holding on to those two ends for dear life and a dry shirt, but i’m slightly gasping for air so i release my death grip and take a few breaths (when she wasn’t looking of course…i’m sure i said something about me being too old to be sneaking oxygen).

so as she’s washing my hair, i’m leaning back in the most uncomfortable position and i realize i’m doing all the work.  she’s not even supporting my head and it’s heavy.  (support the head, support the head). um, my neck gets enough exercise, but after wash no. 4 my head becomes a burden to my neck and i’m ready to drop it.

you want to know how difficult this is?  david blaine won’t even attempt it.  he might be able to hang upside down for 60 hours, but he cannot lean back in a salon chair and hold his head over a sink for 9 straight washes. endurance artist my foot!

9 washes? was my hair really that dirty? with each wash my message was the same: support the head, support the head.  of course, she doesn’t understand english too well so i could have said night of the living dead and it wouldn’t have made a difference.

while she was scrubbing my scalp she was kind enough to say in english, “okay“? from my past experience this means: am i hurting you or am i scrubbing too hard. i’m like no, in fact, if you don’t scrub harder i might hurt you.  of course i don’t say that, but next time, i’ll have to bring my piece of paper that says “please scrub harder” written in spanish with me.

next i was told to go and she pointed in the direction of the operation station.  i’m thinking what happened to my color rinse?  i look into the mirror and there’s more gray hair coming out of my scalp than my black permanent sharpie marker can handle. i don’t mind gray hair, but this time i wanted it colored.

“what happened to my color rinse”?

“let me see your receipt”.

“see, it says right here: you are obligated to wash that gray right outta my hair“.

“come”.

i get up and we go back to the baptismal pool area.  i have to wait on a translator, but i decide to go with my natural hair color, a medium brown rinse, just to fill in the gray.  after she’s done applying the color to my hair, she slaps a plastic bag on my head, nearly covering my eyelids and has me sit under the dryer for about a half-hour.

after my half hour is up, i have to get my hair washed yet again! support the head, support the head. oh forget it!  i slide down in the already too less of a chair to get my neck to rest on that groove in the sink and I use all my quivering neck muscles to hold my head over the sink like a champ.  3 more washes and i come out of the pool looking for my gold medal.  with my glasses off, that outstretched hand could have been anything, instead it was my signal to go.

after the foregoing process, the rest was easy. my hair was trimmed, rolled and dried. 3 hours and 45 minutes later i had cooperative, bouncy hair and i was happy for a first time visit.

do i have a point? oh yeah, my hairdresser.  we have to break up.  i like her because she’s familiar and i like the way she cuts/styles my hair.  i’m just no good at long distant relationships, especially when i found someone who, with training, has real potential in becoming my new hair stylist.  she’s much closer to my home and my job, is less expensive, there’s parking and they are open 7 days a week. that’s a lot to be ignored.

so how do you feel about people who serve you on a regular basis.  your stylist?  your barber?  do you feel a sense of loyalty toward them or are you okay with trying out new people?

Photo of Neon sign by By Shira Golding
Photo of salon chair by VeecoManufacturing.com
Photo of hair dye DrugStore.com

1. i would drive, hop a subway and then walk
2. and going bald in the process
3. wait, i don’t know her
4. the perm!