Books

The Stylist
Essay on Hair

I am reclining in a chair at Panache Salon, head back, eyes closed, having my hair washed by my hairdresser and friend, Kelly. For the next hour no one can disturb me; I have no responsibilities other than sitting still, chatting a bit, laughing, and allowing Kelly to position my head and chair as needed. She applies a rosemary-scented shampoo and massages it gently into my scalp. The warm water, the herbal fragrance, the soothing touch of her fingers, the light laughter coming from the other room all conspire to put me in a trance, almost more delicious than sleep. When she’s done we move to her station. She brings me tea and, after some discussion about how short I want my hair, she starts to cut. I coax her to tell me some stories from her time at beauty school. They learned to shave heads, she says, by using a straight razor on a balloon. After she’d done her requisite number of balloons she was assigned to shave someone with an advanced case of head lice. Her description of the process is agonizing, but she knows I’ll later purloin this story for my book, and we’re both laughing. We always laugh. I’m far too relaxed to do anything else. Having my hair cut here, at Panache, by Kelly, is one of my life’s real pleasures. It wasn’t always this way; it took me many years to find a salon like this. In the past having my hair cut was awkward or humiliating – or downright dangerous.

When I was a child I had extremely short hair, often cut by my mother. It was so short in nursery school that once, at a father’s day event, when I was doing some hammering, another father said to my father, "Your son is pretty handy with a hammer." This story was always reported by my parents with pride, though it didn’t seem to affect me one way or the other. However, by the time I got to high school, I was sick of short hair and wouldn’t let anyone get near me with scissors. I allowed my hair to grow and grow, wore it long and unkempt and wild. I loved it and was attached to it in the way I imagine Samson was attached to his hair. But in my mid twenties when I moved to New York for graduate school, I decided it was high time to get my hair styled. A friend recommended a salon on the Upper East Side. So off I went to Pipino Buccheri to get my locks shorn into some more fashionable shape. The place was filled with wealthy matrons who I imagined were women of leisure. Coming from the Lower East Side, I was completely out of my element. As the hairdresser and I discussed what I should do with my hair, I mentioned its current style. She hushed me with a dismissive wave. "Honey, you don’t have a style." For the rest of the session I remained silent and tried not to look in the mirror. When I emerged I definitely did have a style. It was still what most people would call long, but it was layered and bouncy, and as I headed home, this new style of mine prompted cat-calls from several men, and I felt suddenly introduced to the power of hair…