I am in a new relationship…with a hair stylist. It is not as scandalous as it sounds.
When I lived in San Diego, I adored my hair stylist. I trusted him completely with the most precious thing I own- my hair. He was fabulous in every way. He would bring me Mexican mochas and give the best shampoos. I never had to show him a picture or tell him what to do with my hair. He would just KNOW. I could sit down and just tell him to do his magic. He loved it since he had free reign to cut, color, and style how he saw fit, and every single time it was perfect. Since I moved (and he moved to Tulsa) I have not been able to find a hair stylist as capable as he is. I’ve jumped from stylist to stylist, not being satisfied with any of them.
Yesterday, I tried a new place hoping I can finally settle down, and I think I may have found something pretty close. The little salon I went to was the cutest and girliest salon. The walls were painted pink and in the corner hung an array of vintage dresses (for vintage dress Friday, of course). As soon as I walked in, I was greeted by a lovely receptionist who offered a glass of wine or, perhaps, a beer. (Note: This was not a posh, expensive salon by any means. The price of my haircut was cheaper than any salon in the mall). Already a great start!
Now, going to a new stylist at a new salon always feels like an awkward first date. Neither person knows what to expect from the other and each tries to make friendly conversation to get to know the person you have be with for the next hour. My stylist and I asked the typical questions of “Where are you from?” and “Do you like it here?” There were the moments of silence, in which you could tell both of us were scrambling to think of questions to ask that didn’t sound lame or forced. However, it all turned out to be great. She listened and advised and made sure I left with what I wanted.
All in all, I made it through with a glass of wine, a great short-do, and possibly a second date.