Your Hair*
April 5th 2022
Not another post about HAIR, I hear you sigh! (see “Esto no Sirve!”) I’m afraid so. I had been cat sitting in San Miguel de Allende in central Mexico for about 3 months when Ruth the cat owner returned from her stay at the beach at the end of February. She had written to me to say she’d made appointments for both of us to get our hair done by her excellent but “very rude” male hairdresser on her first morning back. God knows, I needed him, rude or not, as I’d been without a haircut since the previous September, when, on the recommendation of my friend, I went to a Chinese hair salon in Girona. A professional and frighteningly young-looking Chinese man, who barely spoke Spanish, let alone Catalan, sat me in a chair in a messy room smelling of five-spice and noodle soup, which transported me right back to China. As I was the only customer, the rest of the young Chinese staff sat around with trays of food, each glued to their screen, frantically texting or listening to Chinese videos whilst shovelling chopsticks of food into their mouths. My hairdresser reeled off his sparse hairdressing vocabulary. “un dedo, dos dedos, tres dedos?” for the length I wanted cut off (un dedo: a finger), “escalado?” (“layered?”) and finally, with his hand he mimicked a straight or rounded fringe, to which I replied with the same hand gesture. So all of that was sorted very quickly and off he went, working his magic silently and efficiently. I left the salon afterwards with a pretty decent haircut and only 10 euros poorer (one euro of that was the tip!). There was also the added bonus of not feeling bored and exhausted by a chatty hairdresser’s life story and complaints.
But now it was nearly March and I was looking more like the Wicked Witch of the North every day. I hack at my fringe occasionally and ruin it’s line and shape each time. I also colour it with shop-bought dyes and even the dark blondes and light browns come out black and then fade to a light ginger-brown. All in all I am not the best keeper of my locks. On the morning of the hairdressing appointment Ruth asked me to remind her of our appointment time and I said I was fairly sure it was 11am. She, however, thought it was an hour later and this was backed up by one of the emails she’d sent me so I went along with her version. We arrived ten minutes “early”. Our man played his role of “very rude” hairdresser splendidly. “You’re late!” he snapped, glaring at us with eyes narrowed in fury. Your appointment was at 11!” I had been right after all! “Sit down over there and have your hair washed!” he ordered, pointing at Ruth, who was, after all a regular and loyal customer of many years. “Not you!”, he continued, pointing at me. Ruth begged him to take me instead but he refused and as I turned to go, yelled, “And I don’t take appointments!”. I left on the verge of tears, not really understanding what had taken place. Ruth’s hair looked fabulous afterwards but from that time on, she renamed him the Bitch. And I continued to look like a witch. The Bitch and the Witch. What a pair!
The months passed. April arrived. I was even more in need of a cut. (If you’re wondering if there are any other hairdressing salons in San Miguel, the answer is yes, there are hundreds of them, but please read “Esto no Sirve!” before you judge me!) Then, earlier this week, Helen arrived at our lunch date looking fabulous. “Who cut your hair?” I cried out in desperation and she told me that a hairdresser friend called Steve had cut it on her rooftop as a favour. He was now running an antiques shop in the old town and I should go there with her the following afternoon and ask him to cut mine! A glimmer of hope rose in my breast but also the realisation that it was an audacious thing to do! That same day I visited Ruth and mentioned that Helen had had a wonderful cut from a guy called Steve. Ruth jumped up and down with glee! “Oh my friend’s Steve’s back!” She proceeded to look for and read me the email she’d written to him the day the Bitch refused to cut my hair. “Help, Steve!” she’d written, “I have a friend who badly needs a haircut! Can you possibly do it?” He’d replied that he wasn’t actually in town but that when he returned, he would always be there to lend Ruth a helping hand. Ruth then explained that Steve was a hairdresser extraordinaire, that for decades he had cut and styled the hair of the rich and famous; politicians, singers and actors who had passed through his salon in LA. He still saw some of his clients when he returned to LA and charged 200-300$ just for a blow dry! Could I really get my hair cut by the man who had no reason whatsoever to cut my hair for free?
The following day, I decided that I was armed with enough excuses to visit him on my own without Helen’s support. It was one of the cheekiest things I’d ever done: asking a complete stranger, what’s more a celebrity hairdresser, to give me a free haircut! My heart was beating fast and the sweat was trickling down my back as I went upstairs to his shop. Steve, with his kind face and welcoming smile, came forward to shake my hand as I blurted out the whole story. He consented to cut my hair that afternoon in the shop as he had kept his bag of hairdressing tools there after cutting his young employee’s hair. We then talked like old friends for 45 minutes, finding many interests, people and places in common but I had to rush off to a friend’s farewell lunch at a restaurant table for 12. As it was I was the last to arrive. At 3.30pm I returned to the shop and Steve set up a salon (mirror and chair) in the corner, wet my hair with my bottled water and went to work. He even styled my hair and blew it dry! I am happy to report that he did a magnificent job and I was euphoric with the end result! The years had fallen off along with a pile of hair and I felt rejuvenated. He did indeed drop some famous names into his stories while working but it would be a betrayal of confidence if I were to repeat them here.
Not only did Steve, hairdresser to the stars, cut my hair, he then invited me to have lunch with him and Diana his employee and so, reluctant to refuse, I sat down and shared some delicious roast chicken and tortillas! Luckily my first lunch had been reasonably light! We continued talking and Steve shared confidences with me in his open, friendly way. I got to know the 18-year-old Diana, who plans to study medicine in the autumn and is creating an online catalogue of all his stock. They have a great rapport. She told me he was like a Mexican grandmother, as he was always encouraging her to eat. Steve said he would never again cut her hair as it was so thick, it had almost broken his scissors. We laughed a lot and Steve opened up some more about his life and childhood. I offered to give him something in exchange for his haircut. His antiques shop is having a grand opening on Saturday evening and I said I would help him prepare for it and work for him on the night. He accepted. Later on we discovered we both had a love of Chiang Mai and he said there were a few Thai articles he would like to have in his shop. I said I’d love to be his buyer. That got us fired up with possibilities especially when I told him I’d been a buyer and seller of Thai crafts for many years until I finally sold all my remaining stock this year. All of a sudden, we had become potential business partners!
Steve said I should now walk past the Bitch’s salon, flicking my new hair around like someone in a shampoo advert and then blow him a kiss because, without either of us knowing it, the “very rude” hairdresser had done me a huge favour and enabled me to make a new friend in San Miguel.
Thank you, Steve!
After I colour my hair, it’s always black, whatever the shade on the box… (Guanajuato, Mexico, February 2022)
…but over time it fades in the sun to a ginger-light brown (Café MuRo, San Miguel de Allende, March 2022)
thewhistlinggypsy 
I so enjoyed this entry. Hoping you´re & wondering when I´ll see you?
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