How My Stylist Joined the Resistance.

In a very nearby alternate universe, I’d be sporting the Sinead O’Connor look right about now.  How you narrowly missed this fashion atrocity is a bit of a story.

Having snowy-bleached hair that still looks like hair, especially at a decent length, is not something most of us can accomplish at home in the bathroom.  So to achieve my current look (which has, at this point, become part of my “brand” and allows folks to pick me out of a crowd at conventions), I’ve been spending a whopping $200 a month at the Doves Studio in Santa Monica.  “It’s cheaper than therapy,” was always my excuse, “and does as much if not more for my self-esteem.”

And it’s strangely true.  Since 2014, my platinum hair has been a sort of magic feather (a la Dumbo).  My new look not only pleased me aesthetically, but served as a symbol of the “new me” and of my recovery from 2013’s suicidal depression.  Even on days when I hated everything else about me, I still loved my hair.  Seeing how much the new hair color boosted my mood, we’ve never questioned the expense.

Then November 8th happened.

Suddenly the world was burning down around me, and I was spending $200 a month on … hair?  I told my husband that I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror anymore, couldn’t enjoy it.  So I decided I was going to buzz it all off after ConFusion, reducing my hair expenses to $0 a month, and donate the money to ACLU and the Sierra Club every month instead.

It’s amazing how hard this decision was to make.  It seems like the obvious choice, right?  What does it matter what I look like, when civil rights and the environment are threatened?

Okay, but here’s a secret: I’ve done this before, when I was a decade younger and hotter… and it looked terrible even then. We’re talking tragically, embarrassingly bad.  This is not false modesty, friends; the next time I went to the anthropology class I’d been taking, so proud of my daring style, my classmates averted their eyes as though I’d showed up with a sudden oozing rash.  No one said anything.  I’d had hair down to my waist and it was suddenly gone, and my classmates were unanimously silent on the subject.  Pretended they didn’t notice.  As though I’d shown up with one less limb than I’d had the day before and they were afraid to even ask.

That, my friends, is the sign of a bad fashion choice.

So the memory of this made my $0-a-month hair plan slightly less attractive to me, I’ll admit.  But I was still determined.  Even when my husband expressed concerns for how a sudden loss of my magic-feather hair might affect my mental health, I was still determined.  Even when a suitor, unaware of my plans, wrote me a three-stanza poem about… you guessed it, my hair, I was still determined.  The only genuine qualm I felt about the whole thing was when I broke the news to my stylist Andrea during what I’d planned to be my second-to-last hair appointment.

I explained to Andrea why I was doing what I was doing, and she was very undersrtanding.  As an intelligent, principled young woman of color she was as outraged about the new regime as I was, but my choice of gesture obviously pained her, and not just because she’d be losing a client (she’s greatly in demand).  For two years she’d been bleaching this stuff, treating it, helping me grow it out and shape it.  She loved my hair.  Every month she went into new ecstasies about its inexplicable strength and resilience in the face of all we were doing to it.  It was her baby, her canvas, her piece de resistance.  Once I caught her gazing at it adoringly while she was blowing another client’s hair dry.  And so that day it genuinely hurt me, on her behalf, to take away something that gave her so much pride.

Well.  On January 18th I went in for what I thought was going to be my last hair appointment.  Andrea met me by the front desk and, as she helped me into my salon cape, she said, “I talked to my managers.  I don’t want you to have to choose between the Resistance and getting your hair done here, so from now on, you pay the $30 model fee, and that’s it.”

[insert line break of pure astonishment]

So essentially, for the time being, my stylist Andrea is donating $100 a month each to the Sierra Club and ACLU.  The donation comes from my card, and it’s in my name, but it’s Andrea who’s taking the hit.

Obviously I can’t let her do this forever.  In the fall, when my youngest is finally out of day care, I’m going to go back to paying Andrea full price and also increase my “Resistance funding” on top of that.

Meanwhile, so long as Andrea and I are both still living in Los Angeles, you’d better believe that no one else is ever touching my hair.

One Response to “How My Stylist Joined the Resistance.”

  1. Joel J. Adamson

    A friend of mine in my science days/daze once said during a lab meeting “when I went through the obligatory head shave… .” Everybody at the table looked at her like she was crazy and she had to say “for a certain crowd.” Her point was the same as yours. She looked like a poorly styled monkey.

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