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Pony: my mean hairdresser
5.25.2007
Small pleasures in small details. I got my hair cut last week. I don't do a whole lot with my hair, and I only get it "tidied up" every six months or so, but still... Little things matter a lot these days, and it was a real pleasure to ride my bike and sit in the chair and have a stranger talk to me about choppy layers.
My hairdresser is really mean and she never washes my hair. The first time I saw her drunk at a bar, she was on her way out to hail a cab on Dundas St.
"Hiya" I said.
She squinted at me and staggered and I realised she was a few strands short of a ponytail, if you know what I mean.
"You - uh - cut my hair," I said, trying to sound ironic or nonchalant, because even though she was drunk and I know for a fact she is not very smart, she is still mean, and I want mean people to think I am cool.
"Your hair looks great" she slurred, with a malicious grin, and fell backwards into the cab.
I have been shopping for a new hairdresser - one where they give you espresso and essential oil massages on your scalp - the full treatment. And I did try a couple of new people. But no one gives a cut like my drunk, mean, punk-rock hairdresser.
She was wearing glasses, and seemed so much older than the last time I had gone to her, a year and a half ago. This time she had the DT's - I think that is what you call the drunk shakes.
"I had a baby a few months ago, so my thicker hair is starting to fall out," I warned her.
"Oh. Weird," she answered flatly.
And I was grateful that she didn't pretend to be interested that I had had a baby. She fixed her glasses and worked at keeping her hand steady, and you know what her trick is?
She touches every strand of hair.
