Aveda

It’s been a long time since I’ve had my hair cut. Asserting my resistance to change in small ways, I have refused to find a new salon here. Instead, I relied on my sporadic trips back to my grad school city to relax into the luxury of my hair’s home.

When I was in undergrad, I selected a place relatively far out of town. An Aveda concept salon, I was charmed by the attention. Scalp massage before the shampoo, hand treatments while I waited for chemicals to force the curl out of my hair, and a cut that looked consistently good. I never questioned the talent of my stylist, and would eagerly anticipate my trips there. In that salon, decorated in pure white and various shades of green, I found a place I loved to go.

Then I started grad school and quickly found another Aveda location. This one was decorated in jewel tones – deep ruby chairs, golden walls, emerald accents. I had my first full-body massage at this one, my initial discomfort of being naked in a small room with a stranger easing away as I realized you could pay people to rub your back. And not be expected to reciprocate! Yay! I had good hair in grad school too – my only downfall was in waiting too long between visits.

I had a good cut in September. It was cute and functional, but putting off finding a new salon had taken its toll. The length was starting to annoy me, and pulling it back in ponytails almost exclusively indicates that it’s time to buckle down and find a new hair home.

So, Friday evening, I entered my post-doc salon. Still Aveda – I like the smells, I’m used to the service, and I don’t know what training is involved for other salons. This one was bright. Cheerful orange walls, exposed wood supporting the roof, chic fans sweeping the air from high in the ceiling. Bright lights, accents in blue and green, were offset by sleek black chairs, sinks and stations.

I had to wait for a long time – finished my bottled water for the first time ever in a salon. I perused the products, already knowing I had adequate amounts of my favorites tucked away at home.

Finally nestled into a chair, I consulted with a petite wisp of a girl who would take charge of my hair.

“Shorter.” I decided. And she nodded in response, still ruffling through the length, pulling it back, then letting it fall around my face.

“Layers?” She questioned.

“Some.” I replied. “I like them subtle though. Easy lines, nothing that falls funny or sticks out from the rest of the hair. It has to be simple to deal with – sometimes I’ll straighten it, but often I’ll let it curl.”

She nodded. “You have a nice natural wave. You’ll want to take advantage of that. So how much are we cutting?”

I narrowed my eyes in concentration. “Two inches? Just above my shoulders, I think. But I’ll let you make the other decisions. Just go classy – professional, but cute.”

We continued to the shampoo chair, and I noted the leg rests. Very nice, I decided. My legs always hung funny in the jewel-toned place. This décor was hurting my eyes a little, but I do like the leg rests.

Relaxing into the scalp massage, and letting the conversations around me ease into murmurs in my head, I took deep breaths and enjoyed one of my favorite parts of life. I love being pampered. The massages, the offers of drinks, putting on complimentary robes for a day at the spa, having eyeshadow and lip gloss reapplied after having my hair styled. Even the short hair appointments are targeted for my pleasure, and I like it.

I breathed in the rosemary mint shampoo, then the conditioner. The water was a bit hot when she rinsed, but my frown quickly resulted in a drop in temperature. Then she started rubbing my hair dry.

I sighed. You’re supposed to squeeze, I thought. This rubbing stuff was not cool. It didn’t hurt, but I knew it would tangle my thick hair. I was wrong. She eased the comb through quickly and twisted three sections then clipped them to begin snipping away at the underlayers.

She cut (and cut and cut), leaving me with a layered chin-length style that I do like. It’s a bit shorter than I expected, and it was completely straight, courtesy of a blow drier, products, and straightening iron. So when it curls, it’s going to be borderline too-short. But that’s OK – it’s different.

The reason behind this extensive discussion is because I’ll have a first here too. And not a good one – like the chemical straightening, or the massage.

“I had a standing agreement with my old stylist. If she started seeing gray hair, we’d talk about coloring options.”

There was a long pause as the young Southerner debated polite vs. true responses. “I just saw one.” She confessed quietly.

I frowned (because I’m not so worried about wrinkles). “I had a few when I started grad school, but I pulled them out and they didn’t come back.”

We talked of other things while she combed and clipped, cut and dried. As the straightening iron pulled and steamed my hair into submission, and she prepared to do the final layering, I asked again.

“There are a few.” She admitted, avoiding my eyes in the mirror.

“So I should think about coloring it.” I stated grimly. I’m not sure what this fixation is all about, but my hair can’t look old. Not yet.

“It’s so shiny and pretty!” She protested. “Once you dye it, it’s different, and you can never go back. So I’d wait. If you start to see the gray and they bother you, we’ll highlight it then.”

She finished up and I complimented her work, tipped her well, and headed home through the rain that would not, as I predicted, turn to snow.

I scolded myself for being ridiculous. For letting tears roll slowly down my cheeks while grieving for youth. I haven’t done enough to be old yet. I’ve lost track of many beloved friends – falling into the pattern of returning calls and emails but rarely initiating them. I don’t have local relationships, and haven’t cared to pursue them. It seems like there will be time enough for that later. If I stay past the post-doctoral limit on my time here.

I’m desperately sad that I don’t have any romantic interests. That I don’t come home to someone. That I don’t have his number memorized so I can call to share my news. That there’s nobody to tell me that I don’t have gray hair after all, or to at least show me where they are. I want the affection, the reassurance, the comfort of knowing that someone likes me and wants to spend time with me. I want the flash of heat when he’s wearing glasses, intent on his work, or wearing really good aftershave. Lazy weekends where we nap and shop together, teasing because we understand where the line between jokes and hurt feelings lies.

I wish I knew where I was going professionally. I can’t balance the pros and cons in my mind. I just know some days feel right – like I’m doing something important and cool. Other days feel awful – like it’s all pointless and hard.

So I don’t know that I’ll go back to the bright orange place. It seems like a gaudy reminder of what I’m losing. The exchange of bright, shiny brown hair for numerous memories of years lived.

I’ve always loved getting my hair cut. Watching the old fall away and the new emerge. But this time, I looked at the pile of my hair on the floor and wondered if this was the last time I’d see the color in masses like that. Or if it was slowly being replaced by gray – symbols of stress and age, but with little dignity in my case.

I started this post on Friday, and have edited it like crazy. Cutting, styling, carefully reordering to try to make my point. The point is I’m not ready to get old. But when I told my mom that same thing, she laughed and said I never would be. That if I ever felt complete and finished, what was the point of going on? So I can’t make this post look like it should. I keep poking at it, unwilling to give it up because I like certain parts, even while I wrinkle my nose in distaste over others.

Then this morning, I washed my hair, easing the smell of Aveda down the drain and replacing it with the smell of me – Pantene shampoo and Dove soap, finished with a spritz of Light Blue. I let the hair curl, encouraged it with a little light product. And it’s cute! Light and pretty and framing my face perfectly. I was looking at it, moving the strands around and admiring the effects of $50 well spent.

Then I saw it – the gray strand glistening evilly among the dark background of the pretty hair. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't that bad – it laid nicely with the rest of the hair. I could only see it if the light hit perfectly, which resulted in some strange contortions after I found my tweezers. I found it again though, painstakingly separated it from the darker strands, pulled it out, then found one more. After 5 minutes of squinting and combing, I gave up. Perhaps there were only 2 strands to find.

If not, maybe that’s OK. Perhaps I’ve earned them in some weird way, and will eventually stop resisting my inexorable slide into being older. Bothered not by birthdays, but by my hair. Foolish? Absolutely. And that’s why I can’t have gray hair – I’m not wise or wonderful enough to deserve it yet. I think.