You know how when you’re paying at the end of a haircut, the front-desk person always asks if you’d like to schedule your next appointment? Who are these people who say “yes” — who feel so confident that the long-scheduled day will coincide with the right (but unpredictable) mix of mood-hair-budget-time-wardrobe-weather that it takes to get yourself to the salon?
Not me, obviously.
This morning I awoke to see that my hair had gone from presentable to horrible overnight, and at 10 a.m. sharp — like someone trying to score concert tickets — I called my salon.
“I’d like to make an appointment with D---- for this evening,” I said, bracing. What were the chances he’d be free? Actually, it was likely. I don’t think that D---- was technically a stylist. I started with him when my usual stylist couldn’t accommodate my frantic last-minute request and suggested D----. I never could bring myself to ask, but I think he was actually an assistant. As for whether he cut anyone else’s hair, besides his mother’s and his uncle’s, I never knew.
I looked at my split ends, and hoped D---- could fit me in. But then, this: “D---- no longer works here.” I was about to ask which salon he’d gone to (yes, I was trying to follow a potential non-stylist to another salon) but the front desk person beat me to it.
“He’s now working full time at. . .” he began, as I reeled from the shocking openness, “FedEx.”
Why this felt like a punch to the gut — or the scalp — I’m not sure. Maybe because all along my hair guru dreamed of dropping off boxes? But, readers, if I knew his delivery zone, I’d FedEx myself a random item and meet him at the door with a comb and scissors.