Tag: hair stylist

Monday Fun-Day

Are you passing on love, or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

This is one of my favorite magnets. I’ve had it for decades. I think that I’ve shared it on the blog before, but it’s worth another laugh. I’ve gotten hundreds of laughs from it, over the years.

Earlier last week, I went to visit my friend/confidante/spiritual uplifter/therapist/wise sage/mentor/consultant, otherwise known as my long-term hairdresser. (We decided that it is okay for my generation to still say “hairdresser.” The older generations than mine sometimes still say “beautician”, and the title in vogue right now is “hair stylist”. I have reached the stage in my life where I stumble on the “right words” for a lot of things. I have reached the stage in my life that many of the things that I say, may now be considered to be outdated and/or even taboo. I try to keep up. It’s important to notice the changes, and even more so, to try to understand why the changes have come about.)

My hair stylist is a few years older than me. We got to talking about retirement. I asked her if she had plans for what to do in her retirement. (Although, I am not encouraging her to retire. The day that my hairdresser retires will be a very upsetting and depressing day for me.) She looked kind of puzzled and sad. “I hope that I never have to retire. I love cutting hair. I’ll do it until I physically can’t anymore, but I hope that day never comes.”

Wow. Okay, simple lesson there. “LOVE WHAT YOU DO. “

Oopsie-Boopsie

Today is my hair appointment day. My hair has become the coat (or hat, I guess) of many colors . . . and many textures. I’ve decided that my stylist is a genius. Every two months or so, I go to her, wanting the exact same look, yet every time I go to her, I feel like I am bringing her a different head of hair to work with. My grays are popping out like weeds these days. When I pull one out, six more arrive, the next day, in revenge. Lately I feel like my real hair is like a clearance, bargain wig. It looks like it is a mish-mash of whatever hair they had left to work with, all sewn together, trying to create a semblance of order, but failing miserably. I’m not brave enough to stop coloring, so I honestly have no idea what my natural hair looks like anymore. I haven’t seen it in years . . . . decades, actually. I’ve always loved my stylist, but the older I get, the more dependent on her, I’ve become. She is one of my lifelines. She is one of my “emergency numbers.” All of you middle-aged women understand this, I know. Tell your stylist your love him or her today. They truly are the wizards of our lifetime. They transform us into “us” at least five times a year, no matter what materials we bring them to work with and at the same time, pretend like is a piece of cake.