The hair whisperer

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.









4 responses to “The hair whisperer”

  1. andrea says:

    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.

  2. PB says:

    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.

  3. Tim says:

    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.

  4. AWB says:

    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.