I have a close relationship with my hairdresser.
I have known Dora for as long as I can remember. I went to school with her sister, had sleepovers at her house, played board games and ate French Toast on Saturday mornings with her whole family.
I have spilled my family secrets over a cut and color hair job at Dora’s shop. I learned all the important comings and goings of small town Forest Grove from my time in the swivel chair with my head in her shampoo sink. At times, Dora is my mental health therapist, my party-line conspirator, my local news broadcaster and she keeps confidences like my bartender. She also gives me a whole new attitude with a scalp massage during the wash. Who could ask for more?
Other patrons, I have noticed, bring in cutouts or photographs to explain how they would like to have their hair styled for the day. I have my own way of describing how I would like my hair to look.
I simply show Dora my picture and state, “I don’t want a lot of maintenance. I like it fluffy on top without the Farrah Fawcett wings on the side. Kinda like I just stepped out of bed, carefree but not wild. This picture sums up what I mean.”
Dora just shakes her head, but I don’t think it is weird at all.