Oops. I did a really stupid thing. I was driving around doing errands on Saturday when I looked into the rear view mirror and saw how ghastly my hair looked. I was in the middle of a hair emergency without an appointment. I haven’t been happy with my stylist lately, and in fact I’ve been shopping around. I’m tired of paying a lot, and not being satisfied. All that to say, I ended up driving to the nearest cheap hair salon I spotted on the highway, and walked in.
After all, aren’t all the stylists in those kind of places recent grads who know the latest techniques? Aren’t they just working at these cheap places to get experience, build up a clientele, and move on?
I walked in. “Hi, can someone cut my hair now?”
Behind the desk, the receptionist, sporting a great haircut, looked up.
“Sure. Give me your coat and take a seat. I’ll get Terry (not her real name).”
Sitting in Terry’s chair, I looked around. The place was dumpy, looking like the low-end salon it was.
Out walks Terry smelling badly from cigarette smoke. Her face was covered with deep wrinkles and when she smiled, she was missing a few teeth. I won’t bother to detail the many different colors of her hair ranging from burnt orange to caramel.
OMG. I had a sick feeling in my stomach as I sat in Terry’s chair, a prisoner, held hostage by my own stupidity. It was too late to turn back.
I tried to imagine the best case scenario. Maybe she was a recovering addict from NYC and came to the mountains to get her life back together. She wouldn’t be the first. Or maybe she was a super stylist from NYC. Anything was possible.
“Is that a natural curl?” she asked.
“Yes, and I happen to have a photo of the cut I like in my wallet.” I handed the photo to Terry.
She looked at it for a second.
“No problem. I’m great with curly hair, been cutting hair in Asheville since 1994. Raised four kids as a single mom cutting hair.”
“Ever been to New York?” I could only hope.
“Never been out of Asheville. Never had the desire.”
“Never. Not even for a visit?”
“Nope. I’m gonna cut your hair dry. It’s the best way to cut curly hair.”
I knew that was a fair statement and such technique existed, so I did not argue with Terry.
Chop, chop, chop. Terry cut away until I was left with a short pixie.
“What do you think? I think that looks about right.” Terry picked up the photo and held it up to the mirror next to my image. “What about color? We use a very good color here.”
I could not speak.
“Would you like to schedule your next appointment?”
“Next appointment? Oh, well, I won’t be needing a next appointment until April – 2013.”