A Hairy Situation

I loathe my hair. And to hear other women talk about their hair, it sounds like I'm not the only one. The hair I dream about is thick, straight, dark Demi Moore hair. I'm sure it wouldn't look good on me anyway. Which of course is why my dream hair also includes having Demi Moore's face and of course her body too. But I have my thin, curly, I don't even know how to describe the washed out red color that I did on it right out of the box. The time has come for that semi-annual event, the hair cut.

This is my third hair cut in Morocco, which marks our time in Morocco fairly accurately, almost a year and a half now. I'm going on my third stylist here. All women know that finding the right stylist is exactly like dating. Adnane was my first. He has excellent skills, but he was a condescending jerk. There will be no second date. Jerry was my second. He's comfortable. You know, the nice guy that you only want to be friends with. He has since moved to the Philippines.

My new guy? His name is Christian and I met him once only briefly. Notice a pattern here? They're all men. I mean what are the odds right? So this must be more than coincidence. I googled the percentage of male hairstylist in Morocco versus the US in search of the answer. But I couldn't find any statistics on it. Really, this is killing me! I'm totally fascinated that in a Muslim country where women's hair is this sexy shrouded mystery kept from every man except her husband, that there would be so many male stylists. Or maybe that's exactly the reason...



So today my girls and I are gettin' our hair did. This is our before picture. Clearly, we need help. And clearly it's more help than any one stylist and/or therapist can provide.

The salon is French. Christian is French. I'm a little French on my mom's side, but who the crap am I kidding? I don't know French. Christian speaks a little English, just enough to get the basics across but skip the small talk. And although I think Christian is super nice and all I am el crappo at small talk, especially on a first date. I mean cut. So I'm totally ok with this. The less I talk the less chance that I will say something completely and utterly stupid.



He washes, clips and dries the girls hair. He's patient and kind.I don't need to talk to him to know I like him. I really like him. The clippings of the girls blond tendrils lay scattered on the floor. My girls have their own love/hate relationship with their hair. They both have beautiful hair that is long and free just the way they like it. But, their straight, silky, exotic flaxen hair also gets them so much unwanted attention here. Strangers pat them on the head and kiss them. And they hate the kissing. I can't blame them.



When the girls hair is done the manicurist asks if they would like their nails painted. Of course they would. I don't know if you've heard, but their mother sucks at nail doing of any kind. While the girls are getting their nails professionally bedazzled, I get take the chair. I'm reminded why I only do this twice as year. It's painful to be sitting facing yourself in the huge salon mirror with the most hideous salon lighting. And why do salons always have awful lighting that makes you look like a cadaver anyway?

I'd like to tell Christian to just make it look great in a ponytail cause that's all I'm ever gonna do with it. But, I'm always curious to see what a trained professional wants to do with it. Cause seriously, I've had this hair for 41 years and I have yet to come up a really great hair idea that would actually work with my hair type and my long face yet. Layers. Apparently the answer is layers. As long as I can pull it back in a ponytail do whatever you want. I would totally go on a second date cut with him. I don't know if he's into me or just enduring me though. I'm pretty sure I'm not his type. After all he's a hair stylist and I have the worst hair known to man. Unless he's one of those guys that really likes a challenge.



I'm done. Holy crap, my hair looks amazing. But here comes the part I hate. The uncomfortable doing quick math in my head to arrive at the perfect tip to reflect my hair satisfaction. Did I do that right? Was that enough? God I hope he liked me. What if I call him you know for my next haircut in like 6 months and he doesn't remember me? Oh, he's not going to remember me, just like he didn't remember meeting me briefly at the restaurant. I guess it wasn't meant to be. I'll find a new guy. He'll like a challenge and I'll let him get to first base the first time. You know first base? Fondling my thin straggly hair. He interupts my insecure obsessive thoughts when he kisses me. A slow french kiss. First the left cheek, then the right. Oh he does love a challenge. And he likes me. He really likes me! Ok, I'm definitely gonna call him. In 6 months or so...