And so the years went by. He gave me blunt bobs, curly locks, centre-parted straight hair with bangs. I introduced many of my good friends to him, telling them emphatically, “He is the best”.
He did my wedding hair. He even cut my daughter’s hair. One thing I loved was his can-do attitude (I just have to tell him what I want and he’ll try to make it happen), how he made me feel like I was his single most important customer (“I don’t give anyone else this discount, you know!”), and the space he worked out of, a spacious salon with lots of natural light in the centre of town.
But one day, he changed. Salon, that is. He moved to work for another salon, and of course, I followed. But the location was not as ideal for me, and it was in the middle of a building with no natural light.
Our meetings became more sporadic. As his skills improved, he grew more popular, and it was harder to get appointments with him. Meanwhile, I started a job as a beauty editor, and trying new salons and hairdressing treatments were part of my portfolio. I’d go to him, sheepishly sporting hair that obviously was not his work, explaining that I tried a new colour with another stylist on the job. To his credit, he was always nice about it.
I saw him less and less, and finally, he faded away from my calendar like the month-old highlights in my hair. But we still say hi on social media and there are no bad feelings. One of my besties still goes to him, to this day.