My hairdresser saved my life.
I asked her what I should style my hair as. I was due for a change.
She asked me what my favorite haircut was; I’ve had everything- but she’s my hair dresser. My therapist. So I told her everything.
I’ve had buzzed cuts, bowl cuts, mo-hawk’s, fo-hawk’s, long hair, short hair, permed hair etc. So she asked, ‘what’ s your style you want now? Something new or something from your past?’
I looked at the magazine’s to see if there was a style I agreed with or could try. You change your hair, you change your life. But I want to have a consistent look. Nothing was intriguing me.
Her hairstyle; a butch, lesbian haircut. Her demeanor; most modest and pleasant declaration of humanity enveloped in one.
Strong and able hands able to hold such caring gestures. I didn’t know if she worked for me or for the whole world. She should have her own show. But only us locals as guests. Because she deserves the best.
So she asked again, ‘new or old haircut?’
I thought back on some old styles and thought that I would like to rock that appearance once more.
She asked me while trimming and crafting her masterpiece what made me want that style and I told her the story. I’ve never told anyone. It was almost fiction because I had to kind of figure out why I had chosen the style. But years later, I found the answers for myself. And she’s still the only thing I look forward to when my hair becomes out of control.
Journalistic Writing
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