Cleansing

My nickname in residency was Code Red. There were many reasons for this, not the least of which being that I had red hair. Generally speaking, people either fear or lust after the red hair, either way you are likely to get what you want.

I started dying my hair in college and over the years it has become so much a part of who I am, that people who know me often cannot separate the two. If you ask, I will freely tell you it is fake, but few people seem to remember it later.

For years, I was too cheap to pay someone to do my hair. Instead, I would sequester myself in the bathroom for a few hours and get high on the ammonia. Gag. Sometimes it worked great. Sometimes not.

Finally, I gave up.

I first met my stylist ten years ago. She was the daughter of one of the medical assistants at the office. I quickly found she was an artist, the kind of person you could trust to do amazing things to your hair. She never screwed it up; all I had to do was let her have free reign. I had never really thought of myself as being beautiful in any way until she got hold of me.

As it turns out, salon appointments are great therapy. Every six weeks I get to wash off all of the residue and negative build-up that has accumulated since my last visit and start fresh. It is amazing how cathartic that is. Clean up the hair, clean up the mind and soul. Cheaper than therapy!

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5 thoughts on “Cleansing

  1. I swear my hairdresser has a psychotherapy degree or something, after I’ve had my two hour session of colour and cut (during which I dumpy all my pent up shit at work on her), I feel a million dollars! I go back for fringe trims regularly just so I can have little burst sessions in between the two monthly visit. 🙂

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    • I love your comments! If there is one place you can let your guard down, it is at the salon. Surrounded by other women who look like alien spacecraft with foil sticking out of their heads, clownish eyebrows covered in matching hair dye, or sopping wet drowned rats after a wash…it is the great equalizer. For two hours there is no room for pride. That by itself is such a relief!

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  2. I’m really enjoying your blog. My hair grows at a rediculous rate and needs to cut about every three weeks. I get about one days grace period where my hair goes from being fine to a thick curly mess. My hairdresser is a woman from Hong Kong who doesn’t speak much English and so my haircut is done in relative silence. Sometimes I nod off. But she does a great job and is close to where I live. My wife keeps threatening to learn how to cut hair so she can give me haircuts at home. Suddenly I’m eight years old again and remembering all the chunks of hair my mom cleaved from scalp, willy nilly, all the while telling me “noooo, you don’t look like feral bush baby, you look handsome.” Aaaahhhhhh!

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