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My Profile
Retro-retrospection - 2008-10-06
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10:34 a.m. - 2003-04-12
What am I going to do? Zee aka: The Best Hairdresser in The World is leaving. It's an incremental leave taking, but this is like slowly bleeding out versus one thunk of the guillotine. In the end you’re still dead. Her last chick left the nest and the house is sold. Zee and her sweetie have a way station condo down by The Shore. Zee’s honey has another 22 months until he can retire, then they are off to Florida. Forever. Zee’s commuting up from Jersey 3 days a week to tend the heads of favored customers like me, but it’s only a matter of time before she gets tired of shagging her ass up the Garden State Parkway. I predict I’ll have my coif taken care of for another 5 months before she hangs up her shears. I HATE change. Zee and I will always be friends, even when she’s down in the Okefenokee watching alligators eat her cats, but I’m going to have to find a new stylist. WAAAAAAAAAH. Most men just don’t get the relationship between a woman and her hairdresser. Mike doesn’t. He likes Zee and he loves that I come home from the salon smiling, but he truly doesn’t understand the huge hole in my life that Zee’s leaving will make. The salon is part clubhouse, part confessional, and all around fun. I mean where else can I go for a bitchy dish about celebrities, have a glass of wine, AND come home with a faboo cut and highlights? Zee and I laugh together, cry together, swap kid grumbles and recipes, and she and I are in total simpatico as to what an “inch” is, how best to cut around that scar near my left temple, and why no matter how much I long for it, I am never going to look good with red hair. A new hairdresser won’t know those things. A new hairdresser might think “A little off the top” means she should mow my hair down to the scalp. A new hairdresser might go ahead and let me color my hair Bozo orange. And it’ll take years of chair side history sharing before she knows enough about me and I about her that we are easy enough together to prevent PMS inspired hair disasters. When a man gets a bad haircut he just shrugs and goes on with his life. When a woman gets a bad haircut it messes with her entire well being. A bad haircut takes big bloody bites out of a woman’s self-esteem. She’ll retreat from the world and even miss her kid’s wedding if her bangs are too short. And a botched dye job? A woman with poorly done color is apt to divorce her husband, rob a bank, or gain 20 pounds. Conversely, good hair gives women wings. It wasn’t until she cropped off her mousy schoolmarm bun that Margaret Thatcher became a real player in politics. You think Ruth Bader Ginsberg would be on the Supreme Court if she was still stuck with the Marlo Thomas flip she had in college? I don’t think so. When the outside of your head is good, so is the inside. And the stylist is the key. Without a good stylist I cease to function. Oh, meals get cooked and laundry is done, but life is soggy and I slog through each day like a Sad Sack. Just marking time and waiting to die. Think it would be extreme if I put the house on the market, packed up all our stuff, and migrated to Florida so Zee can continue to take care of my hair? No, I don’t think so either. Sitting shiva for my hair, ~LA
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