Danielle, my hairdresser

I got my hair trimmed today and it made me miss Danielle. She was my hairdresser back when I lived in the States. Sure, she was in Chicago and I was in D.C., but I’d save my hair cutting for whenever I visited the city. When I first got my hair cut by her, I was actually a little bit afraid. She had a very big personality and seemed slightly crazy– especially because she’d just curled the hair of a guy dressed like a cowboy, who came in before me, like Farah Fawcett and asked me if it looked beautiful. I nodded in fear. I had this giant urge to bolt, but I was too scared. “My hair will grow back,” I told myself, even before I got in the chair.

In the end though, Danielle gave me a gorgeous hair cut and I had slowly warmed to her as she took her time to trim my tresses and entertain me with stories of her friends and family. It was particularly when she told me that she’d tried and loved Durian in Thailand that I decided I liked her. I know, I’m too easy, but the bond of love for food and travel can be too great sometimes.

Anyway, today, as I walked into a random salon near my apartment, the hairdresser didn’t greet me. She just pulled out a hanger and waited for me to respond by passing her my cardigan. Then I stood awkwardly in the middle of the shop, not sure what to do as she stood behind me, about half a head shorter than me, and grabbed at my hair, asking what I wanted done and how short. I felt like I had to bend backwards a little for her to have a better look, or else go sit in a chair like is normally done. Then, not saying anything, she dangled a hair cutting apron in front of me and I obediently put my arms through the holes at the side. In silence, I followed her to the sink, sat down, and threw my head back. The whole ordeal continued without a word and lasted about 40 minutes with her sighing audibly, grumpy-faced and tugging mercilessly at my hair. She also didn’t smell so good and I had to try not to breathe in too deeply. To her credit though, my hair turned out a lot better than I’d expected after she’d given it a good blow-dry. But 30 quid later, I’m not sure I’ll go back. I suppose you get what you pay for. I didn’t even get her name.

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