And I Was Such a Good Grasshopper
Must I abandon my dream of Holly Hunter hair? The hope itself was Rio's fault. Rio--Jennifer's hair stylist--recommended by her. Rio was the master. Rio would change my life with a quick flick of a scissor.
I went along with Jennifer, to see for myself. I watched in awe as Rio cut her hair with the flair of a flamenco dancer and the care of a Mohel. I listened, feeling guilty myself, as he scolded her for various hair offenses. When we left, she looked beautiful-chic and I had an appointment for the following week.
I was even more impressed after my own session. Contrary to what I expected, when I left the decision of my style up to him, he opted NOT to cut all my hair off--a drastic departure from the clipper-happy pixie-makers of my past. He suggested I actually grow it out--to add weight to tame the pouffiness and to prevent "old lady hair." He trimmed the dead ends and added some long layers and spanked me with a hairbrush for using Pantene. His final edict: "The bangs HAVE to go." That was ok. I trusted.
Since then, I have adhered to all of his rules and training. I bought a shampoo and conditioner that didn't come shrink-wrapped together with a free sample of gel. I've strengthened my arms for proper blowdrying. I found a paddle brush I can also use on my own backside if I backslide.
Now, it's time for my next visit, and I've come to find out Rio has left the salon and gone to teach at the Aveda Institute.
Woe, oh woe, is me.