Stawberry Blonde (Emphasis on "Straw") II

Ontario Street is not known for its great shopping, its sensational apartments or its exciting nightlife. It is more of a marginal city street, unfit for tourists, fit for struggling artists and low-income singles. In short, it is not a street that tries hard to impress.

I couldn't understand what had attracted me to the little salon on Ontario. It was easy to miss and so small that it only took cash. The lady who booked me in also turned out to be the same lady who did my hair. Her name was Audrey, and she looked to be about my age. On both the day I booked my appointment and the day of my appointment, I noticed that Audrey was impeccably dressed. This is not something out of the ordinary in Montreal; most women are impeccable in appearance. But there was something different about Audrey. Her hair was, what else? Strawberry blonde. It was very short and chic--buzzed from the neckline up, with long, wispy, bangs, elfish, pointy sideburns and the cutest little cowlick pointing upward from the crown--and somehow made her look even more feminine and delicate. It was like a blonde 1950's Elvis cut, minus the heavy, rectangular sideburns. I could picture her hair greased and combed back from the front, with just the tiniest curl hanging down in front of her forehead, but the way she wore it--bouncy and tousled--was better. With pieces falling forward and into her eyes every now and then, she looked like a coiffed masterpiece, who just rolled out of bed.

Audrey's head was slightly disproportionate to her body, in a good way. She was tall, but with small features, and a thin waist and neck. Her large head gave her the overall appearance of a tall child, which is undeniably beautiful. Though she was slender, her face was round and full; so full in fact that her cheeks dimpled uncontrollably from the pressure of her smile. The first day I met her; she was wearing tight black jeans and just a simple yellow tank top. She wore a black bra underneath, but it didn't look trampy since she had only a hint of bosom. Her shoes were metallic, strappy heels, and she wore them like she was born in them.

The second time I saw her, she was wearing a just-above-the-knee red pencil skirt with an empire waste. On top she wore a striped navy and white t-shirt. Both items were worn snug, and both had nautical details that made her look like she was a pin-up girl posing for a 1960's Navy crew. She wore white spheres on her lobes and her face was bare except for some burgundy eye makeup. She was amazing.

I typically think a smile tells you how a person feels about themselves as well as how they feel about you. When Audrey smiled at me, her expression did not match her overall appearance. Her smile said she was shy, reserved and somewhat nervous. But not nervous in a way that makes her untrustworthy. She had an open face. It made me feel welcome. I smiled back.

She was the complete opposite of the hairdresser I'd been going to all these months, the hairdresser from France. Audrey was not professional to the point of being cold. She made me feel like we were girlfriends talking about how we would do each other’s makeovers. She embraced my straw-like locks and touched them with careful fingers. She studied my eyes, my complexion and my expression. Then she made some suggestions.

"I think you should cut a lot off. Simply because it is damaged, and beautiful hair is all about healthy hair. Then I think we can give you some bangs... Kind of like Sienna Miller's. I will add some lowlights, but I don't think you should stray too far from the blonde. It kind of suits you, and besides, it's summer." She said the last part through smiling teeth. Audrey was positive and honest about my situation and I trusted her.

"Let's just flush out these copper tones with some more subtle hues and take out any left-over green from the ash toner you used." She didn't think I was silly for ruining my hair. She just wanted to fix it. She didn't judge. She smiled.

For the rest of my visit, I spent my energy trying to get to know my new hairdresser. She was born in Poland. She went to a private school. She loved designing clothes. She had an Italian boyfriend. She was vegetarian, and allergic to milk. She loved fireworks and live music. She didn't want kids; at least not yet.

These are things she told me about herself. Other things I learned about her from how she was. Her voice, the words she chose, the expressions on her face, her body language. She looked straight into my eyes when she spoke to me. She had steady hands. She drank a lot of coffee. She smelled like flowery soap. She chose words carefully, hesitating and pausing between phrases while she searched for exactly the right words. She often waited for my reaction to what she was saying, before showing her own emotion through her facial expressions.

We talked a lot about Montreal.

When she was just finishing the cut, I could already tell this was going to be a good one.
It was something of an inverted bob, with long, in-my-eyes bangs. The whole cut was staggered in this and that direction. Overall it looked like a long, slightly grown-out bowl cut. I felt like a Monkee. I felt beautiful. This haircut felt like me and that was what I wanted. I felt cute and happy, and I couldn't believe how long my neck was and how sharp my clavicle was.

I paid in cash and gave Audrey a sizeable tip. I made it as obvious as I could--without appearing phony--that I loved what she'd done. I asked her advice on maintenance. I gave her a big hug, and I walked back to the metro. Hair Hell was officially over. Now, to begin enjoying Hair Heaven...