Tangela had finished cutting my hair, and now, to my surprise, she was wielding a razor. Her hand was poised above my head at a precise angle as I exclaimed, “You’re going to use a razor on my hair?!”
Jerking her hand back and taking a step backwards, she said, “Well, yes, I was going to . . . that is . . . unless you don’t want me to.”
I guess my emotional reaction had scared her. What I had to explain was that I was overjoyed at the prospect of having my hair razed. No one had shaped up my ultra-short hairdo with a razor since I moved away from my friend Sherri. My last hair person was not comfortable with that process, I guess; she had told me she “didn’t do that.” She did do a good job with the scissors, so I had stayed with her until she was “no longer with us.” That’s when I decided to go to the other place nearer my house.
You see, I get my hair cut at the “fast food” of hair salons. It’s fast, inexpensive, and non-committal. People come and go. There’s no long-term involvement. Things can get too locked-in when a relationship becomes exclusive. This was about to happen with Tangela, however, as I loved the texturizing magic she worked with that razor. But alas, our blossoming friendship was to be cut short. I called today and was told she is “no longer with us.” That’s the downside — no warning!
Stunned, I expressed my needs to the stylist who had answered the phone. She said, “Any of our girls can do that. It’s taught in beauty school.” Then she added, “That is . . . if our razors are sharp.”
Ouch! Maybe I should reconsider Paul’s advice about that hair-cutting thing after all!