Most people get their hair cut and leave feeling refreshed and attractive. I mean, if I'm leaving $90 lighter (what?! Marcus is sooo worth it--he cuts Joan Rivers' hair!), I should be confident that I look 100% fantastic. Why then, is it an emotional roller coaster every time I step into or out of my salon?
I think most men, women and poodles can agree that hairstyle is a highly personal thing. I'll admit that I freely judge people based on the status of their locks--especially women. Frizz says "I gave up a long time ago", short and spiky says "I'm either a lesbian or fine with you thinking that I'm a lesbian" and bangs say "I'm adorable and not afraid to be unique." Have I mentioned/is it obvious that I have totally cute bangs? Anyway, I spend a lot of my time feeling great about how I look, hair included. I'm appropriately attractive for the life I want to lead, so I feel pretty lucky. That being said, I have some MAJOR anxiety when I know a haircut is approaching.
As of today, I think I've discovered the root (see what I did there?!) cause: Marcus, my stylist, is infinitely cooler than I am. It's not just me...take a look at the facts! He's tiny and comprised almost entirely of muscle; he was in the Army for many years before becoming a hair dresser; his partner is the manager of the Four Seasons, so every night he goes home to his suite in a luxury hotel; he's always traveling abroad and recently bought an amazing condo in Florida; he was featured in a magazine... the list goes on and on.
Normally I can charm people with my enthusiasm and wit, but Marcus never seems impressed with me. He's been my stylist for almost a year and we're just starting to develop a rapport, if you can even call it that. Most of the time I can't hear what he's saying over the blow drier and I just nod and laugh as if he's incredibly brilliant. Even without the hearing impairment, I think there is a fundamental lack of understanding between us. Last time he was cutting my hair he said: "I think you're the first person to ever call me mature...it makes me feel old." Um, earth to Marcus, I never said he was mature. I think of "mature" as making good decisions, and between his jet-setting, his wine-soaked evenings and his appearance-centric ways, he's living the dream of a seventeen year-old bee with an itch. I KNOW I have never called him mature, and have spent the last twenty minutes racking my brain to come up with a string of words that when combined, sounds like the word mature, but doesn't actually include the word mature. No answer yet, but I'll keep playing my own version of Mad Gab until I think of something suitable.
Back to Marcus--I try SO HARD to make him like me through good tips and encouragement, but he doesn't care. Instead, I usually hear one of three things:
1) You should come more often. The cut needs shaping on a regular basis.
2) Your hair is coated with minerals, probably either copper or bleach--DC water is awful. Go to Sally's Beauty Supply and get a demineralizer to use once a month.
3) You have happy hour written all over your face. (Okay--I'm not drunk, Marcus, just happy to see you!)
Come to think of it--Marcus kind of sucks. Still, I have yet to find someone that provides comparable quality and thus, I remain his minion. I even recommend him to friends all the time. I mean, bringing him business will force him like me, right? Shut up--I know I'm pathetic--stop judging me. ::flips perfectly trimmed hair and storms out of the room::
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