Haircrafters
My monthly trips to the hairstylist have been getting…weirder lately. If I’m being totally honest, it has been moving in that direction for a while now. I’ve been going there since 1984 and was witness to its rise and slow demise. Like any business, it has gone through many phases over the decades - changing names and personnel, trying to adapt to the times, and staying profitable.
The shop began its life as Cut ‘n Curl in the Seventies, eventually transitioning into Haircrafters in the Eighties, which is when I took up with them. On any given Saturday, there would be 10-12 busy workstations, with music playing, hairdryers blowing, and women laughing. It was kind of fun to be a part of. There were decorations up for every holiday and on the closest weekend to Halloween, they would all be in costume. This was basically the only time I got to speak to older women, although most of the conversations centered on boyfriends, local bars, and vacation plans. Sometimes I could make them laugh, but not usually. Except for this hair appointment, we just didn’t have much in common. I would tell the stylist how I wanted my hair cut, and she would roll her eyes and say, “Yes, Jeff, I know. You tell me every time.” After this exchange, I would sit there quietly and have them pepper me with tales of their latest adventures or observe while they talked past me to the other stylists. I was just a visitor in their world, after all.
The first stylist I had there was Laura, who was sort of wacky and liked to show the other ladies how my ear turned red if it was touched. Looking back, she was really just a girl - maybe a year or two older than me. She still seemed wise and world-weary to me though, probably just out of DAVEA, which was an off-site trade school where some of the high school students would spend part of their day. It seemed like all of the DAVEA girls were tough and sassy with a lit cigarette tucked between their fingers as they practiced their craft on volunteers who lined up to get a free haircut. This was the mental picture I always had, anyway. Generally, they were students who weren’t planning on going to college and were getting training for the real world. Because of this, I always saw them as older and a little cooler, almost adults. Anyway, one day Laura snuck in a stylish Eighties cut of my frizzy, kinky hair that got me compliments the next day from a cool kid at my part-time job. So, despite her tendency to tease and embarrass me whenever possible, I kept my standing monthly appointment with her.
The physical experience of going to the hairstylist is a little strange, at least to me. I was a quiet young guy who was just starting to date girls regularly. So, clearly, I was interested in the opposite sex. You might think that having a pretty lady lean against you while cutting your hair (turns out this was just a Laura thing, she would kind of rest on you), would be exciting. Even when my hair is being washed, it was normal that I would end up with my face in the shampoo girl’s armpit or have boobs against my cheek as she worked. Yet, I never found this exciting in any way, I just thought it was really funny to be in these compromising positions.
One day, Laura wasn’t there, and I got into the chair of a leggy brunette with giant hair named, Wendy. All that remains in my memory of her is a denim miniskirt and that large hairdo. Wendy ushered me through the bleach-blonde Depeche Mode haircuts that I sported during my college years. When she moved on, I went crawling back to Laura, who took me back no questions asked. After Laura left, Betty assumed her duties for a short time before I finally settled on Margarita. I’ve been with her for what feels like five years, but in reality, has probably been fifteen.
The framed posters of hair models on the wall have never changed. The books on the rack for customers to search for style inspiration remain the same. I am positive you will find versions of the Dorothy Hamill wedge cut or the JFK Jr. “Jon-Jon” as well as dozens of feathered relics from generations past still there waiting for their return to the spotlight. As for my style, it is short all around, a little longer in front - the “Jeff-Jeff” as it is now known. Not stylish, not unstylish - an inoffensive dad cut.
The salon changed hands many years ago and is now owned by an Indian lady, who renamed it “Heaven’s Beauty”. The condition of the place betrays its name, however. They moved the store recently from the location they occupied for so long - more than forty years. They did not inform me of the change, so I ended up tugging on the door and having to peer in the window to find they had gone. I called their number and asked where they were. Turns out they had moved to the other side of the strip mall complex. They tried to explain why they had to move so suddenly but to be honest, I got a little lost and disinterested in the details. It was a better location with more foot traffic, although they weren’t quite ready for customers. The whole situation just seemed thrown together. This was reinforced with every halting step I took towards the door to their new space, with a banner bearing their name stuck on the wall above the shop. It was so still and quiet once the door closed behind me. It felt like those rare times when we stopped at my grandpa’s house when he wasn’t home. The windows would be closed up tight and there seemed to be something more than silence in the house, like an absence of sound and life, with the only movement being the dust particles quietly spinning in the sunbeams. Looking around the salon, I thought, “Jesus, it feels sad in here.”
Margarita asked if I’d like my hair washed first, which is standard procedure. Saying “yes”, we headed behind the curtain into the back room where the only sink was. She asked me to be quiet because a client was sleeping in a makeshift spa room after some sort of treatment. I could just make out a person laying on a table through the gaps in the wall. There were plants here and there around her and a ceiling fan slowly spinning. I felt like I was peering into a Tennessee Williams set-piece. We walked toward the back in the dim light past mannequin torsos with head-fulls of hair for aspiring stylists to practice on. There was overflowing garbage can against the back wall that the landlord comes to empty each day because there is no back door in this space. Isn’t that against code? She told me sometimes the clients get scared, asking to go back up front and will now wet or wash their hair before they come in for the appointment just to avoid going in the backroom. I’ve already had to ring up my own sale a couple of times while they were learning a new register, if I now had to wash my hair beforehand, I’d be one pair of scissors and some know-how away from doing this whole thing myself. When we did emerge from the back room, I asked if they could put on some tunes. They turned on Ed Sheeran, which wouldn’t have been my first choice, yet much better than the oppressive silence.
Given the age of the clients I see each visit, I wondered how long it has been since Margarita swept up something other than grey hair. Besides the elderly women who come for their once-a-week wash and set, there is usually some other middle-aged man in her chair getting the finishing touches as I come in for my appointment. Maybe…probably, they too have been coming here since the Eighties. Just more hangers-on like me, unable to move on. Maybe “unable’ is the wrong word, “unwilling” fits a little better. I can go to Great Clips; I just don’t want to. I like having someone take their time while cutting my hair, maybe even talk to me a little bit. Plus, I prefer giving my 18.99 (plus tip) to a small business.
I’m digging through the past and laying it out here because I think it might be time to move on. I’ve been trying to hold onto something that left a long, long time ago. Moving on is something that I want to get better at, and this seems like a good place to start. Do I now try to find a barbershop? Is that my next move? I can’t believe I have to start looking for a spinnin’ pole after all this time. Perhaps a five-minute haircut at Great Clips, where you barely get the chance to warm the seat before you are booted out the door? There must be a chair out there somewhere with my name on it. All I have to do is find it, let them toss a cape over my head, pump up the chair, and embrace the future. Plus, if I don’t like the cut, it will always grow back.
P.S. - Feb 5th. I was at Heaven’s Beauty today to get my haircut when my first stylist, Laura, walked in the door, this time as a customer. She sat in the chair next to me and started talking to Margarita as she worked on my hair. Sitting in that eighties-style chair with a cape on while hearing that old familiar voice was a strange and nostalgic experience. After I paid and was getting ready to leave, she asked, “Where’s your coat? You brought a coat, didn’t you? It’s cold out.” All these years later, still snarky, still teasing me. Nothing ever really changes.
