To save time and money, Elizabeth became my primary hair stylist about three years ago. I’ve gotten a paid/professional haircut from time to time to clean things up, but mostly it’s been “pick a clipper and let her rip.”
In part because I’ve reached that certain age where the hair terrain is a bit more uneven, and in part for the cultural experience of it, we decided to let professionals handle our shaggy manes this week. There are literally a dozen salons within about 100 yards of our apartment, most only one or two-chair affairs, but we decided on a posh-looking place in the basement of our building called “Hair Skul.” We saw a steady stream of young, hip folks coming out of there with hair that looked as if it had been treated humanely, so we figured it was just the place for young, hip people like us. (Mark my words, one day you’ll read the fascinating story of the covert auburn hair coloring pipeline into Hungary. Some L’Oreal sales director has made a fortune on women between the ages of 30-60 in Hungary — and we’re not talking subtle highlights, but no-doubt-about-it-red, and not just on women who look like they’re making up for missing out on being roadies for The Clash.)
No punch line on the results, thank goodness. I just had to convert my American #2 clipper into metric terms, and the stylist with blue-green hair did a great job. Elizabeth’s ‘do turned out nicely as well.