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By Madame Fabulous
Photo credit ©iStockphoto.com/Kevin Russ
I had a most awkward phone call a few weeks ago.
“Hello? Hi, it’s Jamie! How are you?”
“Oh,” I stammered. “Hi Jamie. Uh, what’s up?”
“Nothing, I just thought I’d call you,” said Jamie. “I don’t know if you knew that I was back in town, but I am and I was hoping maybe you’d pop by. I’d really like to see you.”
“Oh, Jamie,” I said, voice quavering. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’m, uh, I’m with someone else now.”
Silence.
“I see.”
Silence.
“Well, I hope you’re very happy with your . . . ‘someone else’. See you around.”
Click.
Breaking up with a hairdresser is hard, isn’t it?
Jamie had been my hairdresser for several years. She had seen me through the best of follicular times and the worst of follicular times. But the truth is, when she decided to leave town for greener pastures, there was a part of me that was glad. Lately, all the romance had gone out of my hair. Where once she used to spend hours preening, cutting, glossing, styling, curling, straightening and generally making me look and feel fabulous, in the last few months of our relationship, there was hardly a perfunctory exchange of gossip before she was cutting my dead ends in a rather routine way that lacked the passion, the adventure of our first few years together.
How well I remember those heady days when we would pour over magazines together, imagining the possibilities. She would tease my hair, “Is it big enough?” “Bigger!” I would squeal. And it would all collapse in a cascade of curls around my face. She would snip, pin and backcomb until her brow was aglow. The highlights were the highlights. You could stand on my strands. We would bask in my crowning glory.
But she got busy, I suppose. Other clients demanded her time. Or maybe it was me. I started growing my hair out and my every-four-week visits turned to six, then eight. Our exchanges, like my hair, were more brittle. Dryer. Limper. Lifeless. The silence sometimes spoke volumes. Cut, style, thank you ma’am.
So when she announced to me one day that she was leaving town for a while, I admit that I was sad. When you’ve been with someone so long, it’s hard to let go. And let’s face it—this was an important relationship. But I told her I would let her go because if she wasn’t happy, I wasn’t happy.
And it was scary out there on my own. I went through some pretty dismal experiences as I tried to fill the void. I remember one particular encounter with a rogue stylist who was so unspeakably awful that when she filled out the client card, I lied about my phone number. I regretted it. I wore hats and hid my face if I saw her on the streets. I knew my friends would mock me if they knew I had let her touch my scalp.
And then, I met the one. From the moment I sat in her chair, it was like we had an unspoken bond. I didn’t want to get excited but sometimes, it just feels right.
“I thought maybe I would . . .” I started.
“Cut the bangs a little more bluntly,” she finished.
“Yes! Yes! That’s exactly right!” I blurted out. She talked me out of a disastrous perm. She talked me into caramel highlights. We laughed, we talked, we styled. I left the salon feeling exhausted and sated. And except for one episode with a boxed dye—for which she has graciously forgiven me—I’ve never looked back. When it’s right, it’s right.
I can only hope that Jamie finds the client that’s right for her.
Madame Fabulous–otherwise known as MadFab (more fab than mad)–has been a professional writer, actor, director, producer, occasional photographer and painter for most of her adult life. Her mother would argue that she’s been a drama queen from the get-go, however. She is a mother to three: Alexa, Theo and Ethan who she blames for the eternal house messiness, the ongoing pantry emptiness, the perpetual head-shaking oddness and the lifelong happiness. She was very recently married to the man who, for the record, she totally pegged as “That Guy” from the start.
Click here to read her thoughts on gardening and here for her explanation of The Cherry Blossom Moment.
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I’m going through this right now! I need to find a tactful way to say, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
I’m the sort of person who would go so far as to fake a lice infestation/raging case of the mange to avoid having to have these sorts of conversations.
I once cheated on a hairdresser and had the most horrifying showdown when she came into the salon to pick something up from someone who worked there.
It’s funny how a relationship with a hairstylist becomes so personal. I went through a similar experience a few years ago. It was really awkward.
Do you think the same phenomena exists with other beauticians? Like, nail technician? Bikini waxer?
My current bikini waxer hurts the least of any I have ever had. I never officially broke up with the last one – she probably thinks I decided to simply go “au naturelle”
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