Hair Angst Part I

This is a photo of my Cousin Itt-like mop, which badly needs to be cut.

Hair has been much on my mind lately. (I know, I know: ridiculously shallow.) This is because I have an appointment for a haircut this upcoming Tuesday, and I am trying a new salon and a new stylist. I have so much to say, I think this is going to be a Blog Series.

Well, the fact of the matter is: I have nice hair. When properly groomed (this means gradually blow dried and brushed, rather than blasted with a few blasts of super hot blowdryer air on a frantic weekday morning) it's long, shiny, bouncy and dark. The longer it gets, the more people (men) look at me (not that I care). Most heterosexual men are suckers for long, healthy hair - my friend Patrick can attest to this. Until recently (he just got a short haircut), he had beautiful long, dark hair, and even though he also has a masculine body and jeans and a man's shirt on - men would always stare, double-take, hoot and holler, only to recoil in horror when faced with the front of Patrick, with his sideburns and little goatee! No surprise - most , okay MANY, not most (God, I'm generous) straight men are just stupid.
For a long time I thought the men liking long hair thing had something to do with healthy hair signalling youth and fertility, you know, some primal urge to reproduce. But the first time I ever bought a fall (a long fake ponytail), clipped it onto my real ponytail and walked through the Beverly Center in LA, two guys crashed into each other looking at me, and I realized it has nothing to do with the health or the authenticity of the actual, real hair, because that hair was actually kind of weirdly stiff and made of nylon! (Hey, it was a mere fifty-nine bucks.)

I've always thought I look better with shoulder-length or chin-length hair; the only reason it's so long lately is because I hate going to the hair salon. Yes, I hate going to the hair salon! When I lived in LA I went to a wonderful, tiny salon in West Hollywood called Varon. It was owned by an adorable guy named Carlos "Charlie" Sotomayor, and it had only three chairs. His boyfriend had one chair, he had one chair, and they rented out the third chair. There was an inexpensive parking lot nearby, and I would enjoy going to the salon and then browsing in the shops in WeHo. And Charlie was sweet and gentle, never running late, and a very, very good stylist and colorist. I had highlights that were all sorts of shades of dark brown and a little bit of honey brown, and it all looked very dimensional and believable, even though I'm Asian American. "I'll miss you," I told him, on my last visit. "You'll be back," he told me, "Everyone who moves to San Francisco comes back to LA." Did he curse me? I've never been happy with my hair since I left LA and Varon Salon.

I've been going to the same salon in San Francisco since I landed here till about a year ago. That's about three years. My stylist was a really cool guy, and I think he did nice cuts, but sometimes my highlights were really bright and kind of brassy, and sometimes my hair looked like a wig after he was done styling it. I started packing barrettes each time I would see him, to stick in my hair afterward. Then he moved out of his salon and started cutting hair at his home, which was a great home, it's just that his sink thing really hurt my neck. So I stopped seeing him.

Just about the time I was looking like Cousin Itt, I took a coworker's recommendation and went to Hairplay salon in SF.
I liked the stylist's work. My hair looked really good. But there's no parking except at the Safeway across the street, and they are hardcore in San Francisco about ticketing and towing. I had to buy something at Safeway and display the bag prominently on the front seat. The whole time I was at the salon (which was a really long time) I was worried my car would be towed.
Also, the salon had vases of flowers in which the water was yellowish brown and smelled like swamp. And, while my hair was being washed, all the stylists except mine were talking about how the maple syrup, lemon and water fast makes them lose weight, but they shit a lot. Nice.

So Tuesday, I'm going to a place called Moxie Parlour on the recommendation of a friend. My friend has really cute hair.
I'm optimistic! Oh yeah, and I'm going to get a bob!