It's All About Great Hair

I grew up in small town Georgia just two counties over from an area populated by women with what we called "radar bangs" - the towers of teased bangs that could pick up a radio single. I had my hair cut by the same woman for years until she retired, and then I shifted to another in the same salon. So as of moving to W-Town, I had had two hairstylists and my hair colored at home or with one of those really tight plastic caps and the pseudo-knitting hook. Not exactly Jonathan Salon.

When I called the salons here, you would've thought I was asking them to use a combination of peroxide and Sun-In on my hair for the response I got for asking about "cap highlights." The stylist I finally settled on was at a salon about 25 minutes from my apartment and about 5 feet tall. Every time I had my hair cut, I'd ponder whether or not a) he was gay b) subtly hitting on me or c) possibly making fun of me. I followed him to three different salons before he disappeared one day with no warning. I was utterly at a loss.

I asked for recommendations from friends, one of which led me to a very chic beach salon and outed me about $140 from a very severe stylist. Then, I found Crazy J. Crazy J. is the gay hair stylist of my dreams. I'd never looked better - from cut to color and the endless flattery about how fabulous I looked. And while his stories about past loves and life adventures seemed a wee tad exaggerated, I could overlook them. I was in love. Did I mention that he gave incredible head massages during the shampoo portion of the experience?

And then one day, his edgy lifestyle landed him in jail after three DUIs and a missed court date. I was devastated, wandering around town with roots and split ends. I found another hairstylist...nice, a little less expensive, easy to be with and chatty. It's been working out okay, but it just wasn't the same.

Not too long ago, I heard through the grapevine that Crazy J. had served out his time and was back on the W-Town hair circuit. But how to approach? Cheating on stylists is a serious offense. And would he welcome me back? Would it be weird? I talked about calling him, but then I couldn't bring myself to do it. And then my opportunity came when the new stylist went on maternity leave in July.

I threw caution to the wind, tracked him down and made an appointment. I drove to the salon today, feeling as though I were going to see a long-lost friend. And there he was, tall, thin and flamboyant. He took me in his arms, told me I looked as fabulous as ever and got to work on my long-overdue-for-a-haircut tresses. It took me half a shampoo, one head massage and 10 minutes of his delighted snipping and cutting to fall in love all over again.

All I can say is: reunited and it feels so good.