You’d think that losing two jobs in the past 18 months would have provided a heaping helping of perspective, but you’d be wrong about that.
There was this guy, Steve, who use to cut my hair. Interesting cat. Worked on Wall Street, made a ton of money and then left to cut hair in a male-only salon. The male-only salon employs a gaggle of young, attractive girls, but I chose to forgo the flirting opportunity (a great sacrifice) and have Steve cut my hair because he is a virtuoso with a pair of scissors. A Grandmaster Artist with ninja skills (if ninjas cut hair). A perfectionist. Other stylists bow at his feet.
But he was a bit of an eccentric. The end results were amazing but the process was always an ordeal. For instance, he would ask me to describe, in minute detail, my worst heartbreak ever. He kept a spiral notebook on his station that was filled with song lyrics that were meaningful to him. Occasionally, he would stop in the middle of a haircut, open a page and ask me to read a set of lyrics, insisting that I read them out loud. He had written them down with a blunt pencil and his handwriting was barely legible so stumbling through was a long, uncomfortable process. And it was always that horrid lite rock that I despise. Air Supply. Dan Fogelberg. John Denver. Firefall. That music is an insult to musicians.
You are the woman that I’ve always dreamed of
I knew it from the start
I saw your face and that’s the last I’ve seen of my heart
By the end of the haircut I wanted to fucking kill myself, but the results were astonishing. And I know what you’re thinking. No, he wasn’t gay. Living in New York City all those years gave me finely-honed gaydar and I would have know.
Steve was heavily into botox. His face was like a blown-up balloon. His cheeks looked like they’d explode if you touched them with a pin. He use to regale me with tales of his sexual conquests during his Wall Street years, referring to his penis as “Steve.”
Eventually, his eccentricities got him fired. Too many customers complained about his bedside manor and now he‘s gone.
One of salon hotties has been cutting my hair and it’s been a total a disaster. She’s terrible x100. A complete incompetent. The extent of her talent seems to be pushing her breasts into my shoulder. What am I going to do? Do you have any idea how long it takes to brainwash someone into rendering a proper haircut?