How to put me completely at ease about trusting you 100% with those scissors in your hand:
- The first thing you do: finger my hair approvingly and say, "Oh, you have very good hair!" I will want to tackle you with a hug because at this point, it’s the last thing I would ever expect anyone to say to me, let alone a hair professional.
- Listen attentively as I explain what’s been going on and why I’m here.
- Nod as you examine my head and relay that, yes, you can tell there’s been massive thinning going on. (Not a happy announcement, no, but it’s validation that I’m not just paranoid, which = good.)
- Before leading me over to the sink stations, nod again and observe that it’s definitely a shedding problem since you can see the hairs have been leaving by the root, not breaking off. Talk, as you wash my hair, about hormones and medical this-and-that, possible causes, things I ought to be sure to have checked out by the dermatologist I’m scheduled to see on Wednesday. There will be comfort found in the familiarity of all your terminology. Nothing prompts trust like someone who sounds like she knows her shit.
- Mention, as you comb out my hair, another client of yours who had the same problem, whose hair just kept falling out in huge sheds. Pause for a moment to fiddle with the comb, unintentionally leaving me suffocating in suspense. Resume the story– how a year-and-a-half later, it all came back. Her hair returned to its natural fullness. She got her hair back.
That being established ("that" meaning my trust in and absolute adoration and respect for this woman):
I kind of feel like I’m ought to be named Flo now. Flo, the art teacher down at the junior high who wears a smock covered with paints and smudges of red clay with dangly cat-shaped earrings and periwinkle cotton-polyester blend slacks, with that loud, deep-but-slightly-nasal voice and a booming, hearty laugh and who sometimes gets that faraway look in her eyes, usually when she’s talking about her late husband David, bless his soul, who lost his battle to prostate cancer 12 years ago this July.
Or maybe Bea, with a big, wide, shiny white headband that matches my big, wide, shiny white earrings that go with my tall, tight, shiny white boots.
I always give a haircut three days to get used to me, though, so no remorse– yet. This, though– I feel like now I actually have to go and develop a goddamn personality for this hair. And, WHOA. I looked down halfway through the process and WHOA. Did not realize I had that much hair left to lose.
Whatever, though. Now I have an excuse to go buy some cute newsboy hats, and I only have to wait until Wednesday morning till I can talk to a derm about all this, and I’ve got hope renewed already. A year-and-a-half is a fucking LONG-ASS time for me, mind you, but at least it’s quantifiable.
Fuck, I’m tired. I keep forgetting I only slept from 6-8 a.m.
Yay for freshly laundered bedsheets!