In which Jill relates how she put herself in the hands of an expert and only looked back once. (For those of you literal interpreters: this blog is a metaphor for something completely different, but we’ll let you figure that out.)
I have deep ambivalence about my hair. My friend Debbie would cut and color it every six weeks but it would turn brassy and lifeless before the next appointment. In a crunch I’d run over to Supercuts for a trim. But facing an imminent photo shoot for the book jacket of our CDI book, I decided it was time to invest in some serious hair color. One of my dog park friends saw a haircolorist-to-the-stars, a woman I’ll call Sally. Sally is bi-coastal. Sally is famous. Sally did Meg Ryan’s color. I wanted her to do mine.
So after being fully vetted by an assistant to an assistant (“And you are…who?”) I got an appointment. As I sat in the Santa Monica waiting room I felt that I was about to be nurtured. The place was polished but homey. Refined but relaxed. When Sally walked in, she exuded a mixture of competence and cool. (Never mind that I would have to grease my thighs to fit into her bell-bottoms.) Sally was fabulous. As she tousled my hair I felt myself surrender. After two colors, three hours, and four cappuccinos, my hair color looked smokin’ hot. When I asked her how to maintain it, she said, “Come back.”
Then I got the bill.
Come back? Yeah, if I skip food and turn off the heat this winter. The cost to color my hair made me wobbly. I could have seen Debbie for half a year for one Sally visit. I could have gone to Supercuts more than a dozen times! I could have done my own over the sink with two old towels and the spray faucet. I could have grown out my roots and looked campy, for chrissakes! What was I thinking?
But I went out into the world with fabulous hair. My friends (yes, the ones from the dog park) asked me if I’d gotten Botox and my boyfriend thought I’d given up meat for good. My hair was shiny in a believable, does-she-or-doesn’t-she? kind of way. I couldn’t ignore the results of Sally’s handiwork, and neither could anyone else. On a workshop evaluation form one attendee wrote, “Jill has great hair!”
When my hair started to grow out, I rationalized that if the cut was good I could get away with a cheaper stylist and occasional touch-ups. Awaiting a delayed flight one afternoon I ended up in an airport barbershop and told the barber to just “copy the existing cut.” I left the barbershop looking like I’d just been sucked into a ceiling fan and spit out again.
I went back to Sally six weeks later. I told her my story. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, ran her fingers through disheveled locks and announced that we’d be starting from scratch. When she gave me the bill and I started to quietly wheeze, she put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Honey, if you don’t have time to see me regularly, I’ll give you the formula for your haircolor and jot down some notes on texturizing, okay? Just keep it in your bag.” She looked at me as if reprimanding a naughty puppy who had knocked over the trash but that would very soon be bringing her the morning paper.
Now I see Sally two or three times a year. She’ll tweak the color and tell me how to wear my bangs differently. Sally gives me extra confidence, an injection of expertise. I know what to do with my hair when I’m not sitting in her chair. If I have a question I can call her assistant and leave a message. (You can only do this if you are a past or current client.) She’s set the standard for me to follow, and follow it I do—sometimes all the way to Supercuts. But I make sure and book my regular “headcheck” with Sally. Ultimately it’s been well worth it.
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