O Sae, Can You See?

I’ve been mulling a new hair cut for some time. Not just a trim up or a reshaping mind you, but an all-out, change-the-look Hair 'Do. I grew out my Fat Lady Chop Off after Howard and I got back together, taking 2 years to snip out the layers. I managed, barely, to get my hair down to my shoulders for my wedding, and I liked the look so much that I decided to get it keep on growing.

About a month ago, I realized that my hair is too long. It has no shape, it doesn’t look professional, and really, it's unflattering. My stylist had been recommending a new cut for the last 2 or 3 visits. You’re thin now,” she remarked. “You’d look really cute in short hair. And it would make you look even taller and thinner than you are.” Did she say thinner? Count me in and cut me off!

This Saturday was the day. I was due to get a color too, and clearly my stylist had forgotten about the cut. She hadn’t scheduled enough time to do both. I watched her face turn arsenic-poisoned white, and was about to recommend a reschedule when she said. “I can do it. Let’s go.”

We quickly relocated to her cutting chair, talked it over to remind each other of what I wanted: blunt-cut bob, short enough to keep off my face. OK, got it. Scissors went to scalp, and away we went.

When she finished a few minutes later, asking the requisite, ‘What do you think?’ I frowned. I looked like Peppermint Patty, all square-headed and choppy. My stylist frowned with me, “Well, this is what you asked for. I did exactly what you wanted.” Maybe, but couldn’t she see that I looked like a Block Head? I couldn’t bear to hear the defensiveness in her tone, and I knew she was running behind already, so I told her to leave it be. Maybe my hair was in shock. Let it go, and let’s get coloring. At least the gray could get covered.

Well, color-me-brown, but the hair remained Bowl Cut With Legs. My face looked fat and awful, and my hair just hung there, lifeless.I pulled it back into a ponytail to get it off of my face, but it just slipped right out of the holder and splattered all over my cheeks and neck. It was a disaster. By the time Howard and I left the parking lot, I was practically hyperventilating.

Now, perhaps the stronger women in the crowd would have demanded a re-cut, but that is not me, and anyway, I was unconvinced that my stylist could fix it. Howard did his best to comfort me, but I knew that it was hopeless. I looked like one of the Monkees. And not the cute one, either.

I made it home, somehow, but then when I went upstairs to see if I could pin it back, the horror of the right angles hit me again. It was horrid. My bangs lay against my forehead, lifeless, and the sides flopped like beagle ears at my jaw line.

I began to cry, and then to rage. How could she have done this? Why wasn't I more specific? How am I ever going to make this work? Howard listened to my lament as long as he could, and then he pulled his phone out. “Let’s go fix it. Today. We’ll find a salon, explain that it’s an emergency, and see what can be done.” I waffled. My god, what if it got worse? I'd have to put my head and my ego into the hands of a complete stranger. Besides, what salon could take a hair emergency at 3pm on a Saturday?

Well, as it turns out, Zazu Salon & Spa could do it. Remember that place where Howard went to get waxed after I tried to kill him with the at-home fur remover? That' the one. They had a stylist who could see me at 4:15, and who understood that this was my 2^nd cut of the day and a Follicular 9-11.

Once at Zazu, I was led in by my stylist’s ‘assistant’ a Marina or Martina, some barely 20 girl with gleaming white teeth and lint-free black clothes. She sat me down, offered me something to drink and told me that Sae would be with me in a moment. Sae, pronounced ‘say’ or ‘sigh’, whichever I preferred.

Okay, then. I wasn't very keen on trusting this Disaster Recovery to a woman who couldn't decide how to pronounce her name. But I was here already, and I couldn’t live with my Basset Hound Head another minute. I slunk down in the chair and waited, avoiding the mirror.

A moment later, she appeared: a pretty, bubbly Japanese woman half my age sporting a sassy ‘do with highlights that cost more than my net pay. “Hello, I Say,” she said, and then I realized she was introducing herself. “Let me see.” She examined my hair, listening and nodding in time to my breakneck speech. She nodded. “I understand. Look.”

She lifted my hair and puffed it up around my chin. “This is too choppy. Makes your face look square. I'll round it out, give edging. It’ll be very nice, super-cute. You ready?”

I could not respond. She was warm and that smile tempted me to hope, but it was too much to ask just yet. Sae went on, smiling. The turquoise beads around her neck danced and jostled as she talked, her hands dancing around her animated face.

“This happened to me too, once. Very bad. But it grew out. It was OK. And I can fix you. You’ll see.”

My paralysis continued. I couldn’t move or speak. She signed and put her hand on my shoulder. “Look, it's ok: you’re not ready. Let’s just do a consultation today. Let me do a little bit of work around your face-no length off. Just a little to smooth it out. I won’t charge you, and you’ll feel much better. Then you can call me in a day or two, when you’re ready. I'll be here, and we’ll fix it. OK?”

Well, I don’t know if she’s the Greatest Salesman in the World or what, but that clinched it for me. “No,” I told her. “It’s all right. Go ahead.”

At first, I couldn’t bear to watch. Later, I couldn’t bear not to. The Hell On My Head became a halo. Sae talked and laughed and told stories while she snipped. She chatted with her assistant, shouted over her hairdryer and complimented Howard over and over again. “I can’t believe he’s here!” she kept saying. When I told her that he had made the appointment for me, I thought she would kiss him.

When it was over, neither Howard nor I could stop smiling. Sae gave me her card with her schedule on it. “Call me in 2 weeks. You’ll need a bang trim. No charge. Schedule 15 minutes and I’ll fix your bangs. Don’t forget. See you then." She gave a firm handshake to both of us and bounced off.

When we left, Howard, spoke up. “I think you should stick with her. Whatever reservations I had about short hair, they’re gone. You look great. She was awesome, and she wants to build a relationship with you. I think you should let her.”

And so I will.

I have my new bob, and it’s exactly what I wanted: chin length, out of my face, neat, trim, and flattering. Sae mentioned that she wants to soften my hair color too. “More brown, make you look pretty,” she said. And you know what? I believe her.

Saturday morning, I had the worst hair cut of my life, and from someone who I’d trusted to scissor me for 3 years. I was physically sick from the results and certain that I had no choice but to hide behind headbands and wait until it became un-wretched. And then, within hours, the mop on my head became a Picture Perfect coif, done by an angel wearing a black tank top, designer Capri pants and slip-on spiked heels. By dinnertime, the memory of the Block Head was so far gone it was as if it had happened to someone else.

It never would have occurred to me before Saturday that I should change stylists. My old stylist was fine. Far from perfect, but good enough for what I needed. We didn’t need to be friends. I had friends, and I certainly wouldn’t let any of them cut my hair. Sometimes a relationship is bound up by its parameters, and that’s ok.

I’m not saying that Sae and I will ever be buddies. In fact, I doubt we will. But she dropped everything to help me, a total stranger, at the end of what had to be a very long day for her. She listened, she told me exactly what she would do, and she offered to walk away if that’s what I needed. And then she fixed it all. I can't imagine what else she could have done, and what she did was nothing short of miraculous. I went from looking like Raggedy Ann to a sleekly coiffed professional in less than an hour. I couldn’t think of a reason to switch stylists before Saturday. And now I cannot believe that I ever went back to Stylist #1.

Sometimes things happen for a reason, even if that reason is completely hidden for a while. Sometimes it's time for a relationship to end--no blame on either side; it's just just time for both parties to move on.

And sometimes we get to find out why we're with someone, and why that someone is the very best person for us, no matter the circumstances. If it weren't for Howard, I'd still be curled up in a corner of my room, weeping and wailing over my bad luck. Instead, I'm bouncing around in my new 'do and thanking all the heavens for my perfect, made-for-me Man.

A the S(ometimes Why)