I mean, over the years!
I use the term “stylists” when really I should just say “cutters”.
Because really, there is not much “style” to my hairdo.
Basically, every three or four weeks, I just have to sit down, get wrapped in the mega-bib, point at myself in the mirror and say, “See that mess? Cut some of it off!”
My current haircutter is Long-Eyelashed Carla.
Every time I see her, her own coiffure is completely different!
Always a new variation of long falsely sun-streaked brown-blonde hair.
She is a real darling. She owns her own salon, the upstairs of which is filled with tanning beds. It’s one of those full-service esthetic makeover places. A constant stream of women enter the back room. I see them in the mirror. They go in like rhinos, come out like goslings! Whatever goes on back there, it seems like a wonderful process.
And Carla has a helper.
Her name is from another planet. Whenever “Zorbda” or whoever she is says something to me [and admittedly, it seems real nice what she is saying] I never can make out even one intelligible word in her message. I just nod.
Carla drives a huge-normous black Hummer with the name of her salon emblazoned across the doors.
Prior to Long-Eyelashed Carla, I went to Hardbody Brigette.
Brigette is in this no-frills barber-shop, in the Mall.
One time I asked Brigette how long she had worked there. She said she was there when the Mall first opened. I asked her to be more specific. [I should not be so forthright when a woman has scissors so near my scalp!]
She said… “In the '70’s.”
I gained a new respect for her, because well, not only is that a hell of a long time to be cutting hair in one place, but Brigette is like…. FIT, shall we say!
Whatever age she is, Brigette is very well maintained.
Hence, my secret nickname for her.
Once she told me she was taking some sort of Oriental self-defence course. She said, “If someone wants to attack me on my way to the car in the parking lot, they’re going to be eating some pavement!”
While she was saying this she was snipping away at my mop and her arm was sort of horizontal and I took note of the lack of arm-flab on Brigette. Don’t mess with her. She will drop you!
Before Carla and Brigette, Luigi cut my hair.
For a long while I went to him. Luigi is extremely Italian, and around 60 years old. A great guy. Great conversationalist. And I used to just love to hear him talk.
I recall two Rather Embarrassing Moments© while I was in Luigi’s chair, and in order to tell the stories, I must speak for him, in his dialect.
Once, at the top corner of the mirror there was a photograph of Luigi with his arm around some young woman that could possibly oust Heidi Klum for a photo shoot!
Wow! I could not help but stupidly comment.
I said, “Luigi, is that your daughter?”
He smiled. Ohhhhhhhh, he smiled for a bit.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
“Oh, thank-a you, Cippy. But-a no! That’s-a me and-a my-a wife!”
“Man is the only animal that blushes – or should!”
-- Mark Twain --
One other time, Luigi had finished cutting my hair, and I walked with him to the cash register where he rang up the bill.
My God, I even checked the bottom of my shoes, to no avail. → I had forgotten my wallet at home!
How does one explain such a thing? Who goes for a haircut with no money?
But as I floundered about, I’ll never forget what Luigi said to me, in as calm a way as ever, patting the air between us with his hands…
“Oh, no no no no, don’t-a worry! Look! Your’e-a not-a gonna get-a rich. And I’m-a not-a gonna get-a poor! You canna pay-a me-a next time!
Remember the time I went to none of these three people, for a haircut?