new do

A few months ago I was looking for a new salon. 

I went on YELP and found this little Japanese salon in my neighborhood called Tokuyama.  The YELP reviews were so amazing you’d think the writers were paid.

The place is tiny.  All the stylists are Japanese.  The prices are more than fair.  Everyone is  hip and talented, and always very polite. And so far, the news hasn’t spread.  You can still get an appointment on short notice.

That’s usually how it is with me.  I’ll wake up one morning, look in the mirror, and decide my hair has died.  In the four months since my last cut, my hair has gotten brittle and straggly.  It needs help.

Eriko is great.  She gives my hair energy.  She clips away with confidence.  I am happy with her work.

I also love the guy who spends fifteen minutes massaging my head.  I am convinced the people who work here are all trained in the art of great shampoos.

I take a scary selfie after leaving, and head over to Zelia's.

Zelia is my most understated friend.  By her own admission, she is not a girlie-girl.  She knows I am coming from just having gotten my hair cut.  She answers the door and I say, “So, what do you think?”  She looks at me and says, “It looks like a haircut.”  Then she asks, “So what did you pay, $200?”  “No,” I proudly tell her,  “only $63.”  “Well that’s better, but it still just looks like a hair cut.  Nothing special.”  

I disagree.  My hair looks like it's woken up from a very long sleep. It is finally awake.