My personal stylist was first introduced to me and my wife when we were looking for a place to get a decent haircut. We went there together at first. I was shy and introverted, not wanting to get too involved in the process due to the inexperience of not knowing the language well enough to answer her questions. I let her decide how things were going to look. I was there more or less for the experience. The first time was a little painful, as we weren’t sure if her vision of my hair matched with my own. My hair cut might have suffered a bit as a result.
I tried another stylist, but things weren’t right there either. Not every time can be the first time at a hair shop. It wasn’t as special. We decided to part ways after just one cut, and I ended up where I started once more with the stylist my wife and I had chosen from the beginning. Things were better then, as we had important things to worry about. Things like weddings and meetings with the family that demanded good hair. Things that required hair that looked like it was cut by a professional stylist that knew what she was doing. I even introduced my brother, who got a haircut from her as well. I didn’t mind sharing, as it seemed natural to do considering her expertise in the craft.
Because of my vacation from work, I had time for a quick impromptu cut. It’s true, I didn’t have a reservation and I showed up out of the blue. I saw my stylist cutting the hair of four or five high school students in rapid succession. Harsh, school mandated style cuts to conform with the dress code while still being stylish enough to scream, "This is not a bowl cut."
It wasn’t the same careful consideration I had once seen filling her eyes as she cut away that young hair. There was no deliberation about whether to use a razor or scissors to trim the hair over the ears. The stylist looked cold, distant, unfamiliar. One haircut after another, as if she had realized, "Has it come to this? Where did the joy go?".
"Where was the passion?" I wondered, "Where was the soul?"
How could a stylist look herself in the mirror after such drudgery? Perhaps I am being to hard on her, as everyone needs to earn a living. But I expected better. I know the stylist certainly was capable of it.
Sure, she tried the small talk with me when she cut my hair, but we had lost something in the way of chattiness. Perhaps she was just tired, or maybe it was me. She asked me about my wife, and I told her she was still working. That was the limit of her questioning. After telling her I wanted my hair shorter, she basically didn’t say anything for the rest of the cut. In fact, she was preparing for another cut at the chair next to me while I got a shampoo from her assistant. I was hardly out of the chair before she was cutting someone else’s hair next to me.
While I’m sure there will be a cut involved in our future, I’m now no longer sure I can think of her as "my stylist".
