FOR THE LOVE OF ABBA
Every year, after months and months of letting my hair grow wild ‘till it’s all split ends and tangled curlicues, I get my hair cut in a blunt, chin-length bob. I’m not the kind of person who gets regular trims, requests soft face-framing layers, or tries curtain bangs for Spring. I wait until I am so sick of the mop on my head that I finally go and get it chopped off. I guess you’d say I’m “all or nothing.” This has been my so-called hair routine for the past five years, during which I have remained ever loyal to my Korean hairdresser, Soo-ji. People call her Susie. I think she’s in her 50s but I can’t be too sure because she has those age-defying Asian genes and she’s almost always wearing a mask. She’s got small bones, a thin frame. And for as long as I’ve known her, she’s had the same hairstyle: a black cropped asymmetric pixie cut, spiked on top with a severe streak of bangs that shoots down one side. It’s so punk.
Susie works at Abba Salon (the name is the reason I took a chance here in the first place) but it’s not a salon, really. It’s a family place with no frills, the kind where Filipino dads take their sons after school so they can get both get a $15 barber cut. The place is small and Susie and her partner are the only hairdressers. They have two salon chairs and just behind those are two small leather loveseats facing each other, forming the waiting area. These ladies are multitaskers, finishing up one man’s pompadour while mixing up brown dye to cover some gray roots, waiting for the bleach to activate on a woman’s head and meticulously wrapping a teen boy’s individual strands into small tight curls. “Is that a perm?” I ask. Susie nods. “Very pop-u-lar for students,” she tells me as they slather the foul-smelling chemical paste on his pubescent head.
The best part of waiting is perusing the outdated hairstyling books from the late 90s and early 2000s titled INSPIRE and Family Album that are stacked on the coffee table. These books are works of art. Frosted faux-hawks, dramatic plum-purple bangs sweeping across the face, chunky gelled highlights, steep A-line bobs, mushroom cuts dyed harsh orange-red. These are cuts that are totally impractical for daily life, a pain to style every day and an even bigger pain to grow out. Susie’s asymmetric look is directly lifted from these books. I like to think someday I’ll be brave enough to point to one of those faded pages and tell her, “Make me look like that.”
The first time I went to Susie, my hair was long. It reached halfway down my back, ended at my ribs. I came in with a picture of a classic bob, cropped an inch or two below the ears. “Mmm” she nodded, turned my head to the front, grabbed her scissors, and made the first snip. 10 inches fell to the floor. The woman in the loveseat behind me gasped. But Susie was entirely unsentimental about it. She knew that was all just dead weight. The result was perfect. “So byootiful,” she said when she was done, “Like pop star.” The ends curled in softly at my chin, made me look more chic yet playful at the same time. All my clothes suddenly looked better on me. I thought, why do I ever wear my hair long? This is so much more me.
Hairdressers in the past always warned me against going too short. “Your hair is so thick! It will poof out.” One hairstylist flat-out refused to cut my hair short. Instead she left me with a shoulder-length haircut, neutral and tame (an affront to my very personality) because it was safe, something I wouldn’t go home and cry over. I wanted to yell, Use your scissors, woman! That’s what I am paying you for!
Susie once gave me the coolest and shortest cut I’ve ever had, leaving the whole length of my neck exposed with piecey strands in front that I could put behind one ear or let dangle in front. She even used a razor. It was androgynous and sexy, very similar to Trinity’s hair in the Matrix. She never once made me doubt that I could pull it off.
Recently, my friend India Sofia got a great haircut for $100.
“It’s kind of expensive, but she comes to your house.”
“Oh really? Where do you sit?”
“Just in whatever chair you have, a dining chair works.”
“But where does the hair go? Does she bring a plastic cover or something?”
“It just goes on your floor.”
“And she sweeps it up after?”
“Mmm, no. No, I cleaned it up…I guess it is kind of expensive.”
The most I’ve ever paid for a haircut was $60. That was a few years ago, at a swanky hair salon in Beverly Hills where my friend worked. He got me to come in for a discounted cut with one of the esteemed stylists. The service usually costs two or three times what I paid, but the haircut was truly unremarkable. I didn’t like the place at all, it was like one big fashion show with everyone performing for everyone else. Manicured hands on jutted hips, exaggerated head nodding, voices pitched to a tone of sophisticated condescension. Exactly the opposite of what I consider a relaxing environment. I knew I didn’t belong there. They made me valet my beat-up Volvo station wagon, for god’s sake!
What’s worse, my hairdresser was an overtly heterosexual man who led with his dick (sorry, mom). Throughout the session, he kept doing things to purposely heighten the sexual tension so that the haircut became like a form of extended foreplay. I knew this had nothing to do with me, it was part of his technique. He’d ask me about myself while making intense eye contact, even through the mirror, like he wanted me to know I had his full attention. What was this, a date? He kept touching me, putting a hand on my shoulder, tipping my chin side to side and grazing my cheek. He’d spin my chair so I was facing him, practically straddling me so his bulge was in direct view, fix a few strands and then spin me back around to face the mirror so I could admire his work. I can see how some women would like to have this man flirt with them, to be the center of his world for an hour. I imagine it makes them feel good, alive. They tip him real well and fantasize about it on the drive home, then again in line at the supermarket. I personally find it degrading to be flirted with in this way, like I’m an object of pity. I could have told him, “Hey man, save your energy, you’re not my type” but I know better than to refuse a man’s advances (however phony and financially-driven they may be) while he is holding a sharp pair of scissors.
The biggest offense was that he didn’t give me the haircut I requested. This was all part of his depraved sexual game: me asking for what I want and him refusing to give it to me, forcing me into submission. He gave me an unimaginative cut, blow-dried and sprayed it with product, curled it with a hot iron, ran his fingers through the curls to loosen them, sprayed more product, adjusted and re-adjusted the individual waves, sprayed some more, spun me to him and back to the mirror again until he finally achieved a look I abhor. He turned me into a basic bitch. After all this, I had to uphold my end of the deal for getting a discount and pose for photos. Then I had to pay him and thank him for humiliating me. Never again!
The whole of it is, I don’t like being pampered by strangers or attended to with what I can’t help but feel is false enthusiasm. Most people probably like to be asked how they’re doing while someone shampoos and massages their scalp, to gossip while getting a blow-out that costs a day’s pay and will only last until the next shower but will make them feel beautiful in that window of time. And they deserve that. The salon is a place that makes you feel good about yourself, it’s a form of self-care. I get it, even if it’s not my thing.
Cheap and unpretentious is my thing. That’s why I go to Abba. If you walk in, they’ll accommodate you. Susie herself is sweet, to-the-point and unAmerican. She speaks just enough English to understand what I want but not so much that there is any expectation of small talk. There’s no preciousness and no ego involved. I even tell her not to bother with the gratuitous blow-drying and styling of my hair at the end cause I’m just gonna mess it up with my fingers right after. Besides, there’s a guy on the sofa with an outgrown crewcut waiting for her quick and decisive hands. The sooner she gets to him, the sooner she can finish setting that other kid’s perm.
I saw Susie this week for my annual bob. Her eyes lit up when I walked in. She was so excited she even gave me a hug. Why do I put off seeing this adorable lady? Her work was as quick and reliable as always. When I took off the nylon cape and stood up, I felt like myself again, fresh as ever. I always feel good after a haircut. But because I treat it like an item on my to-do list with no deadline, I take 10-12 months to get around to it. If going to the salon is self-care, why don’t I do it more? Don’t I want to feel good? Don’t I want to look like pop star?
Maybe this year is the year I break my pattern, start going in for regular trims. Maybe all that hair was slowing down the blood flow to my brain, weighing me down spiritually, keeping me from the person I want to be. I could become a whole new kind of person, one that goes jogging in the morning, short hair bouncing in the wind. The kind that calls her grandmother more often, doesn’t break plans or let the house get dirty. Why do I let the house get so dirty? Don’t I love my grandmother? I could sign up for the tennis lessons I’ve been meaning to do, finally learn Spanish. Maybe I’ll write a book. Maybe I’ll write a book in Spanish. I’ll write a book and play tennis three times a week. I’ll take better care of myself, stop making so many excuses. I’ve got to change before it’s too late. It’s not too late. It’s never too late. But at some point, it will be. Maybe it’s all led up to this, this moment of clarity. Maybe everything bad happens for a reason and all it takes is one good hair cut to turn it around. Maybe this is what it means to change, to be reborn. Or maybe not. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back anyway.