Abandoned

I’m not a very girly-girl. I wear makeup purchased from the drug store. I only wear lip-gloss on special occasions, and I actually think I own enough shoes. And I have a phobia of hairdressers. It started when my mom cut my hair super short when I was in elementary school. Boy short. So short that she had to let me pierce my ears at seven so that the women in the grocery store line would stop calling my brother and I twins. So then I decided to try and grow it out in fifth grade. It looked awful. Combined with the awkward stage and some giant glasses, I was convinced that the unruly mop on my head was the root of my unpopularity. In sixth and seventh grade, I wouldn’t let anyone touch my hair. I was trying to grow it out. Mostly, I just grew a ratty, curly, nasty, mess. Finally, I came home and had my mom cut it off and started blowdrying it straight. So then I let my mom cut my hair all through high-school. I finally found a hairdresser I liked when I was in college, but she was back home, and although I tried to coordinate my appointments while I was home, I had a few really bad haircuts in the rural Midwest town where I went to school. And then my hairdresser at home quit, and I had to start fresh, all over again. I got one really, really good haircut while I was in DC for a summer during graduate school. I tried to go back when I was home the next summer, but that stylist had left. I ended up going to a new guy who actually left my hair different lengths on the two sides. I had to go back and get him to fix it two days later.

I finally found a hairdresser when I was in my second to last year of grad school. It was the first time I’d found someone who actually remembered my name, asked how my life was going, and who seemed to enjoy catching up with me every six to eight weeks. Sure, it’s all part of the business, but it was comfortable. And it was hard to leave behind when I moved to the city.

So, imagine my surprise when I actually found a hairdresser I liked last year. I went in with very low expectations, and was incredibly impressed. I was sold after one haircut, and didn’t have to spend any great amount of time getting referrals or reading reviews on yelp.com. She was actually helping me grow my hair out. She had taught me about products. My hair is finally past my shoulders. It actually looks like the pictures I’d take with me when I got it cut. I finally felt settled. I’d moved to a new city, started my first real job, and was living in my own downtown apartment. Doctor- check. Dentist- check. Tailor- check. Hairdresser- check.

I started a new job last month and was too busy to make it in at six weeks for my normal trim. And even though I’d been putting it off, I was excited to go tell her all about the new job. And filling her in on my wedding plans. And just catching up. Sure, it was going to be inconvenient to have to go three metro stops just for a haircut, but I was willing to do it. I was willing to figure out how to fit it in during my busy work weeks, because, after all, she was my hairdresser.

But today, when I finally got around to booking an appointment, I couldn’t find her name on the drop down menu for the online scheduling system. I called the salon directly, and confirmed that she no longer worked there. I suppose it’s too much to ask for a mid-range salon to contact you and let you know that you’re leaving. I can’t blame her for not bothering. I mean, after all, it was a big city salon over the metro stop that specializes in walk-ins. But I couldn’t help feeling betrayed. You see, for some reason, all having all of these things, hairdressers, doctors, a drycleaner who actually creases your pants the way you like them, and a grocery store where the clerks are friendly and ask you how your day has been—these are the little things that make living in the city tolerable. These are the things that make me feel special, wanted, as though I belong here. But perhaps the relationship has always been a little more one-sided than I had realized.