There’s a woman – we’ll call her “Donna”, since that’s her name – and I love her.
She listens to my stories and tells me hers. We chat about garage sales, discuss how great the parties in the 80s were, and have bonded over our mutual amusement regarding women who stuff themselves into clothing far too small and men wearing baggy pants far too big. We have confided to each other our morbid fascination regarding the minds of serial killers. She always tells me I’m beautiful, and I always believe her.
Who is this fabulously astute woman?
She is my hairdresser, and she is one of the reasons that I love living in the city.
A city is really made up of little neighborhoods, and the client/provider relationship within it is special. Donna and I live less than a mile from each other. Her shop is in a reasonable walking distance from my house. She fits me in on literally a couple hours’ notice, charges me a ridiculously low fee for anything she does to my hair, and amuses me for free.
For my part, I come in every six to seven weeks, am on time, tip at least 15%, and endeavor to be amusing in return.
I called Donna late Saturday morning, hours before I had to be at the Ritz Theater for the evening’s SNOball event. I confessed my lack of planning, my wish for my hair to look differently than it usually does, my unprecedented sloth-icity in not having called earlier, my willingness to make up words to describe my need of her.
She took pity on me, and by 3:00 she was doing my hair.
What? What’s my point?
My point: times are tough. Spend your money in your neighborhoods, cultivate loyalties, and do something special for the big parties.
You just never know if there will be pictures.
Now Hear This
8 hours ago