Aprill Brandon column: It's a curl thing
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BY APRILL BRANDON
Ladies and gentlemen, I think I have found my soul mate.
No, I don't mean my new husband, you goofballs. Pffft...yeah right.
Of course, don't get me wrong. I "love" my husband. He's great and junk. But what I'm talking about is a much deeper connection, a much more satisfying experience that can change everything you ever knew about yourself.
What I'm talking about is a once-in-a-lifetime, monumental, earth-shattering, practically divine relationship that most women never find and yet search for their entire lives.
What I'm talking about is that I have found...(ragged breath)...excuse me, I just get so emotional when I talk about this...I have found...my hair stylist.
Ahh! Right!? This is huge news, folks. While I realize that at least one of the two standard genders found on this planet probably have no idea why I'm so excited, the rest of you know exactly what a huge deal this is. Finding your hair stylist, not just a hair stylist, but "your" hair stylist, is right up there with winning the lottery, curing cancer or losing weight without even trying.
Her name is Stacy and, quite frankly, I love her. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say she's the best thing to happen to my hair since sky-high '80s bangs went out of style. I truly believe it had to be nothing short of divine intervention that led me to her chair that fateful Friday afternoon. And by divine intervention, what I mean is that I called up the hair salon and said, "Who's free Friday?" And they said, "Stacy." And I said, "Cool."
For most women, going to get your hair cut is a nerve-racking experience, especially if you're doing it with a hair stylist you've never gone to before. That's how things like the Mini-Mullet Disaster of '03 happen. You go in wanting to look like Audrey Hepburn and come out looking like a reject backup dancer from Billy Ray Cyrus' world tour.
So there was no shortage of trepidation on my part. My past history with hair stylists is spotty at best. There was Melissa, my very first hair stylist, but she was on loan from my mother and as such I spent the majority of the years from 1988 to 1994 looking like Maria Jr. There was Sandra, who when I said, "just take a couple of inches off," heard, "whack off eight inches and give me a shag cut." And of course, there was Jen. She was a sweet kid. But, alas, we had to break up after the Brady Mom Haircut Incident of '99.
*Editor's note: Names of former hair stylists have been changed to prevent scissor-related injuries to the author.
But Stacy, oh, sweet, sweet Stacy. How I can I describe this razor-wielding goddess?
First of all, she offered me hooch. I was just sitting there flipping through a December '08 Cosmo while I waited for her to finish her last appointment, when, just like in the movies, the clouds parted, angels started singing and I heard, "Would you like some wine while you wait?"
The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a stressed-out journalist's heart is most definitely through the offer of free booze.
Secondly, she had that whole scalp-massage shampooing thingy down to an art. She did this one thing where she rubbed my temples with the palm of her hands and I am not kidding when I say it almost made me get down on one knee and propose to the woman, my new marital status be damned.
Then the cutting began and I watched myself transform in the mirror. She knew when I said I wanted, "you know, swoop-y bangs," exactly what I was talking about.
And as if all that wasn't enough to ensure my life-long loyalty, she used this product on my hair that I am convinced was made out of unicorns and rainbows because of how soft and silky and shiny it made my hair.
So to all you ladies out there, I just want you to know that if you haven't found your hair stylist yet, don't give up hope. He or she is out there somewhere. And when you find them, trust me, you'll know.
Chances are good they'll offer you free hooch.
Aprill Brandon is a reporter for the Advocate. Her bangs now swoop with the best of 'em.