"Oh, cute hair..."

...she greeted me at the door.
"No it's not," I snapped.

"I look like a state senator!"

"Oh come on, don't sell yourself short. I'm thinking U.S. Rep. at the very least."
"¡That's even worse!" I wailed.

The thing of it is, I liked my hair when I last saw it in the salon, in the gleaming mirror, under the track light that illuminates every hair, washed and made shiny with high-quality shampoo. Somehow during the five minute drive to my friend's house, the sleek, almost bob transformed into a hair-helmet.

For someone for whom use of language is of supreme importance, I am too frequently quite inarticulate in my attempts to communicate in that most fraught of relationships - the one between a woman and her hairdresser. It was even harder than usual yesterday. My stylist spun me around in the chair and said, "So, what are we doing today?" while peering at my hair studiously (In her eyes I read the unvoiced question, "Did she take safety scissors to her own bangs?"). I began with my usual, "Um...", and continued like I'd rehearsed it, "sort of like it is now, but a little shorter with some more layers sliced into it?" "Mmmm hmmmm," she replied like an interrogating officer waiting for the suspect to give up some information she can actually use. I announced, "I'm growing it out!" I paused, adding "um...obviously," after realizing that I hadn't been to the salon since the beginning of Fall Quarter.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked.

"Yeah, after this I'm picking up my friend and we're going into the city and staying overnight and going to the beach and SFMoMA and City Lights books and..."

She somehow managed to stay polite and professional as she followed up with, "That sounds fun. I mean, do you have a vision for what you want your hair to look like when it does grow out?" I looked up at her. She's a little intimidating.

"I guess. Um. No," I answered. "Well I do," she said, squinting sternly at me. I was a little leery until she said, "I was thinking about your hair last night." "¿Really?" Even though it's her job and she is very conscientious that way, I was ridiculously flattered. She's been cutting hair longer than I've been speaking Spanish. Hipper and cooler in one piece of jewelry than I'll ever be in an entire outfit, she has long flaming red hair and wears cool clothes (like yesterday's black vinyl pants) and thick framed rectangle glasses that make her look like a wise and beautiful anime figure. So she described her vision and I said, "OK, do it." She described the advantages, beginning with something about how it might be nice for me to have an "update" (¡!) and ending with, "And it won't add much time to your hairstyling regime." The word much gave me pause, but I didn't say anything. I have never had the guts to tell her that my "hairstyling regime" is waving the hairdryer in the general direction of my head with one hand while taking a hit off my maintenance inhaler with the other...but then, after almost 10 years I guess she's probably figured that one out on her own. I left the salon, promising to at least try to aim the hairdryer a bit more precisely...and I was optimistic. Maybe having an actual style would lend me an air of no sé qué as I try to move into a more professional/professorial stage... and it had received the best friend stamp of approval...

Things like hair just don't matter at the beach.


When we did get to the city, the first stop was the beach, where the wind blew my sleek, shiny, political hair back into its usual state of anarchy.