We used to gaze into each other’s eyes for hours. We’d talk. We’d laugh. He’d pour me another glass of wine and tell me I looked gorgeous. I would smile as I paid him, leaving his place more satisfied than when I walked in the few hours before. Am I talking about a sordid affair? No, just another woman flinging with the man in the mirror. My hairdresser.
As a blonde, I have always had a particularly regular and dependant relationship with my hairdresser. Sure, like any girl I have been though a few, but despite the flings in my early 20s I finally thought I had found a lasting relationship with my recently-estranged colourist. I would arrange my weekends around his schedule on the promise that some one on one time with him would restore and rejuvenate me.
It was fun while it lasted. He complimented me obscenely, and I would subtly correct my part in the rear-view mirror once I left. Although like so many relationships, it found its end. And it was bitter. He no longer listened to what I wanted, He didn’t seem to care about my feelings or what I needed. In the end, we parted due to what I consider to be irreconcilable differences. He wanted my hair to be platinum. I wanted it to grow. We had to split like the ends of my hair that had been falling out for a year.