It’s 10 p.m. and I just got home. From the salon. No color, no perm. Just the hair whisperer.
I found the hair whisperer many years ago, thanks to a friend. His tattoos and combat boots were a delightful rarity in the Georgetown salon. I knew my life was changing when he took my hair in his hands and held it, listening to it, for a long, long time before wielding the scissors.
The hair whisperer is an artist. Each haircut is a gift bringing spiritual enrichment to its bearer. He embraces change and pushes me out of my comfort zone. If I keep asking for the same haircut, I know its days are numbered.
He is notorious for being behind schedule. In D.C., that’s a crime. But his clients tolerate, accept, or rejoice in the fact that he’s late, because he’ll take just as much time to make them feel fabulous.
Tonight’s 90-minute wait was an all-time record. But then my patience was rewarded by the best haircut ever, a glass of Prosecco, and a brilliant discussion about life, the universe and everything.
Thank you, Kristjun Holt.
Readers, if you are ever in D.C. please, make an appointment.
My schedule and my impatience finally led me away from the hair whisperer. I miss him! He is an excellent antidote to DC and he is so good. Cannot wait to see your hair Stella.
I, who sport the most untamed, unruly and unbridled tangle of hair, can only wistfully covet such a gift. We all need an entourage and when we find a perfect match, It is worth any cost. Sigh.
Love the photo!
I found my own hair whisperer about seven years ago and have stuck with him ever since. He tolerates that I only get cuts twice a year (I dislike the sudden change a haircut brings to my appearance) and gives me cuts that still look good six months later. No Prosecco, however.
I have overly intimate and self-destructive relationships with my hairdressers. I’m about to move to a small town where I don’t think that will be possible, but we’ll see. I’ll manage to fuck it up somehow.
NYC hairdresser #1 cut it a few times and then wanted to date me. He was supercool and way into me, and I didn’t know anyone in the city. It ended about like you might imagine.
#2 was the most perfect, gorgeous slacker ex-model who did not give a shit about flattering or hassling me. We just talked about life. I was working at a particular college, so she decided to enroll there and continue her education. She did so well–damn her!–that she’s now on the wrong coast getting a PhD and no longer cutting my hair.
#3 is the one who gave me my new short hair. I came in and said, “I dunno. I just wanna cut it all off.” She says, “What are you afraid of?” Me: “I guess I think people might see my big fat head.” Her: “Everyone knows what your head looks like. Stop being a pussy.” I might be in love with her. But she’s so popular now that she’s booked two months running. It’s almost impossible to see her.
In my new rural town, I may not be able to find the level of artistry I have seen here, but at least maybe there won’t be so much psychodrama.