Today I got a haircut.
I usually don’t splurge on these types of things, but I go to a super fancy curly hair salon in Manhattan. Haircuts are not cheap, but they last for six months so it’s worth it. Because I have relatively unusual (naturally red and curly) hair, trips to the beauty parlor have historically been a bit traumatic. From the time I was four, all the frosted-haired salon ladies would gather around me and ask, “Where did you GET that hair?” My parents both have brown hair and dark eyes, but I was too young to understand or explain recessive genes, and also, didn’t it just grow on my head? Needless to say, I didn’t like all the attention. Not to mention a bad haircut can make me look like an actual clown.
Robert is the only person I trust with my hair. I love his sense of style; he is the kind of guy who can pull off three-piece suits with wooden bow ties and pointy iridescent electric blue leather shoes. He is so in demand that I usually end up having to see him as early as 8:00 am on a Saturday. Getting a haircut from Robert is a transformational experience. He assesses the situation, grabs small sections, twists them and snips. You can make small talk with him, but he is giving your hair laser focused attention; he is transfixed.
Next is a glorious shampoo deep conditioning and scalp massage, followed by the elaborate ritual of saturating each curl with product and squeezing the curls towards the scalp until they squeak. Then blotting with a microfiber towel and then dozens of tiny alligator clips positioned to add volume to the crown. Under the scary alien hood dryer until I can’t take it anymore and then Robert reappears, digging his hands in to shake out his latest masterpiece. Finally, he asks me to stand up and the real fun begins. He uses his scissor as a level to make sure that the angles are just right. Individual errant strands are surgically snipped. The whole time, he is smiling and staring intently at his work.
Witnessing his Robert’s complete flow-state, I say, “It is so amazing to watch you work. You clearly are doing exactly what you are meant to be doing.” “Thank you sweetheart,” he says (he must have thousands of clients, so the generic nickname is more adorable than offensive), “I do love this work. If it means helping people look and feel little bit better about themselves, to give them a little bit of extra confidence, that makes me happy.” With that, I head off to pay and he’s on to his next sweetheart.
Perhaps this is because I live in New York where most people’s moods range from cynical to hostile, but it is inspiring to encounter people who truly love what they do for a living. Robert is one of the gruntled ones, and he just made this cynical New Yorker’s day.
this gruntled worker 