Being a tried and true Libran, I believe that you can never have too personal a relationship with your hairdresser.
For years I regularly saw Dee at Weiselmann’s in the Melbourne suburb of South Yarra. We had reached such a level in our relationship that words no longer needed to be exchanged. She knew what I wanted, and she knew how to please me. Ahh those glory days when she would run her fingers through my hair, and gaze upon me with such intent.
Dee is an artisan and a perfectionist. I have thin blond hair, but a hell of a lot of it. And as such it shows every cut line. Dee’s attention to detail was a razor sharp as her cutting scissors, and she would spend moment upon moment making sure my hair fell without any discernible fault line.
But of course now, I am thousands of kilometres away from Melbourne … and my Dee. And finding the Mr or Mrs Right who is skilled enough with the stainless steel is a difficult task.
Ever being the brave one, when I was in New York City I headed down to the famous Astor Place Hairstylists. Don Filippo was in charge of cutting my locks. I looked around his station and there were autographs from some very distinguished A level celebrities that had their heads coiffed by the Don – Samuel L. Jackson and Bruce Willis immediately stood out. Whoops … hang on. They’re bald!
Don Filippo took the clippers to the back of my head and gave me a slick short back and sides. When I suggested that maybe he had left the front a little too long, he promptly responded, “No, I have left you something to play with.” No argument. No further cutting required. I sank in my chair and immediately apologised for my ridiculous suggestion in fear of offending and a gang of mafioso descending upon me with gel and mousse to teach me a damn good lesson.
So now, forced with the need to trim up again in the land of the Eton cut, I popped into a local shop here in Tring. I’ve blocked out the name of the ham-fisted automaton that hacked at my hair with a pair of children’s safety scissors. First of all she wanted to square off the nape line on my neck! Yes, dear readers, such blasphemy!. I also asked her to chip into my hair to give it texture. She generally cut across her fingers in a straight line with only the slightest of timid chips put into it. I mean, is this girl cutting hair back in the 1970’s? Urgh.
The joy of all joys came when this brightest oif sparks assumed that she had indeed finished. Quick as a whippet, she wrenched of my nylon cape that supposedly protected my from all the hair that had been cut away. Yet she seemed to not notice the rather hefty amount left on my forehead, eyes, eyebrows and cheek. In fact, she completely missed the rather 1.5cm square clump of hair enjoying a nice scenic picnic on my right cheekbone. Looking at this dizzy bitch directly in the mirror and wiping my face down with my hands quite pointedly, I wondered if she would get the point. Nope. Common sense was not a friend of hers.
I paid my £6.50 and ran as fast as I could back to a loving shower to rinse away the wasteland of my hair that this Doyenne of the Mediocre created. Fortunately I am skilled in the arts of product and hairspray, and can hide the worst of her devastation.
Oh, how I miss my Dee.