ESPECIALLY when you are going to trust that man with something as important as your hair. I mean I may date some real losers, but I am much, much pickier when it comes to my hair.
When I first moved to DC, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of salons and stylists. Then I was in complete and total sticker shock over the cost of these places. I went to one place recommended by someone who I thought had good hair. When all was said and done sure my hair looked alright (nothing special), but I also couldn’t afford to eat for the next 6 weeks.
So I asked around and had one salon in DC recommended by a lot of different people. And this time I made sure to poll people like me that were working for next-to-nothing salaries at low level jobs and for who “super sizing that value meal” was an expensive treat reserved for very special occasions.
The first guy I saw at the salon was nice enough. Really eerily quiet but hey, I am not much of a talker myself, so I kind of liked not having to make chit-chat. Hair turned out ok, didn’t kill my wallet, so off I went. Looking back at some photos of me taken at a wedding a few weeks later, I realized that I was far too blond and bobbed for my own damn good. I looked like I should be giving the weather report somewhere or passing out free keychains at a bar, it was just not a look I could pull off.
So while I wanted to go back to that same salon, I wasn’t really wedded to seeing that guy again (such a hair floozy I was!) The next time I let them schedule me an appointment with P. It was one of those occurrences where I truly believe there is something out there bigger than me, because some force stepped in and made a match up for me (and my hair!)that I will be forever grateful for.
I know there are all the lame jokes and stereotypes about women and their hair stylists. But this isn’t some wannabe therapy session. I look forward to our time together the way most girls look forward to a date with Prince Charming. We like the same things – like music that is far too young for us and making fun of other people. We talk about important things – things that MATTER. Like who’s going home that week on American Idol or if Jillian Michaels would beat Jackie Warner in a cage match (I totes agree with him that Jillian would knock the stuffing out of Jackie)
P has saved my hair and my sanity so many times I have lost track. I will never forget (because I don’t know if he would ever stop reminding me) of the fateful day I walked into the salon literally in tears. I had spent the course of that day discovering my identity had been compromised and had to go through the long process of shutting down all my credit cards, bank accounts, even my damn Blockbuster card as some @sshole went on a spending spree. My boyfriend-at-the-time’s reaction? "That sucks, babe. I will do an extra shot for you later." P’s reaction? "You can come back and pay me whenever it all gets straightened out but you need your hair done today more than ever." THAT is love people.
P has even met my mother. I brought her down here for her birthday one year and surprised her by bringing her to P and letting him fix the whole situation she had going on on top of her head at the time. My mom probably felt like she woke up on an episode of the Tyra show or something. But she STILL talks about that appointment with P to this day and wishes she could go see him all the time.
My relationship with P has lasted longer than any other relationship with a guy. And I’m fine with that. When I finally find a guy who makes me laugh half as much as P does, I will know I’ve found a keeper. Oh and straight too. Sorry, as long as I’m throwing wishes out there, I should be specific. Straight and can sing showtunes with me?? Well that would be like finding a leprechaun riding a unicorn, but maybe it exists. I mean, someone like Mr. Shuster could exist in real life, right?
So I will sit here at my desk watching the minutes tick by and looking forward to my date with P later. I should be making use of this time by deciding what I’d like him to do to my hair later on, but it’s so much more fun to see his pissed off expression when I tell him “I don’t know….just something different” P, if you read this, I hope you are always the Ken Paves to my Jessica Simpson. Unless you let me out of the house in mom jeans. Then we may need to break up.