Subterranean Homesick Blues

Ode to An Understanding Hair Stylist

I like to think that my hair is one of the first ways people might look at me and think “Hmmm, she looks really awesome. Perhaps I shall try to make her my best friend in a non-creepy, thoroughly kind and innocent way.” This is one of the reasons I miss my short hair dearly. That was cruise control to insta-cool. 

Now, my hair is long, and requires different care and upkeep. I imagine it’s the difference between owning a motorcycle and owning a BMW, both cool, but both very different things to pay attention to. My hair is very thick. It’s not the the individual strands themselves are thick, in fact I’d say they’re delightfully average. It’s that I have so much hair; the volume of strands upon mine head is great. And man, was my mop starting to feel thick on top. I was starting to feel decidedly uncool, and my split ends, well they were nearing a status that would require the Army Corps of Architects to remedy. This is all to say that when I feel like I need a haircut I can think of nothing else. Blow drying my hair feels like a cruel joke, and I can see the multitude of split ends laughing at me as they rest on my shoulder.

So when I found a place to get my haircut in my neighborhood that was a bit cheaper than my other beautiful New York gal pals pay, (Hi ladies! You all have beautiful hair and faces!) I had dollar signs raining in front of my eyeballs. How wonderful: a delightfully hipster-y looking place, not four blocks from my apartment, great reviews on yelp, and its name is a pun! 

“Howard, stop drilling! You’ve hit oil,” I thought to myself.

But, I had to wait a week for my appointment. I could wait. But my anxiety mixed with bright shades of excitement was mounting. 

My appointment was last night at 7:30. I ran a few errands in Union Square after work and then went into the train station to catch the L over to the Bedford stop, which would place me just a few blocks from the salon. I get on the train. The doors close. 

Nothing happens. 

Okay, fine. It’s probably just some train traffic ahead of us. Bastions of nothing continue.

Later, a skinny, plain-clothes (Painfully plain: a green Filene’s Basement looking sweater and gap chinos from the mid-90s) cop walked through all of the cars and told us simply, “This train isn’t going anywhere. Find an alternate route.”

Here’s where I become an asshole. 

Alarms are going off in my head. Not the appropriate kind of alarms like, “oh no! I hope everything is okay!” They’re more like, “WHO WILL SAVE ME FROM MY SPLIT ENDS NOW?”

I ran out of the train station watching firemen, cops, and EMS professionals carrying stretchers. I shudder.

And then continue frantically trying to find the salon phone number. I’m running down 14th screaming into their answering machine “HELLOTHISISSAMHOWARDI’VEANAPPOINTMENTBUTI’MLATEBECAUSEOF [deeeeeeeep, gasping breath] SOMEKINDOFEMERGENCYATUNIONSQUAREBUTI’MSTILLCOMINGBYE.” I arrive 20 minutes late, sweaty, still gasping, and muttering a prayer that Allie will still take me. 

She did. Allie, you’re a saint. I was 20 minutes late, and you still took my out of control layers, weird waves, and atrocious split ends and made me look like a woman again. A really hot one. I promise to leave you and the salon a rave review on yelp. (And also to tip better next time. I got flustered and I’m not sure how much money I gave you. I’m sorry if it wasn’t enough. I need to keep my wallet in better order.)

(Very serious note: Apparently, the train I had gotten on, hit someone as it was pulling into the station. I was at the other end of the platform and there were approximately 583466127 people waiting to get on the L, so I had no idea that this had occurred. I really hope this person is okay and that this is not a vain wish. I can’t seem to find anything on the internet about what really happened last night. I am unsure whether this is good or bad. I did the best I could by getting out of the way of professionals and just going to a completely different station.)