This week there were a few contenders for fabulous. I saw a couple of shows, went to an event for RAGTIME (which is going to be at the Strand later this month). But my fabulous event of the week was going to see Billy. That’s Billy Drummond. Not the musician. My hairdresser.
I have been going to Billy since my freshman year of college. That makes it 32 years. Thirty. Two. YEARS. It scares me to even type that. We’ve known each other during a lot of life. Good, and bad. I’ve strayed a couple of times, trying to save some money, or go closer to work. But I’ve always gone back. Billy gives a truly great haircut.
About five years ago I decided to stop dyeing my hair. Now, Billy taught me how to dye my hair way back in the day. Working in the arts, having him dye it wasn’t in the budget. He has talked me through different colors. Applauded the burgundy. Cautioned the red (which turned pink at the roots). Talked me through the difference between ash and golden colors. Gave me tips on mixing.
I wear my hair very short, since it doesn’t grown down but rather grows out. (He also talked me through trying to grow it long a couple of times, and even one attempt at straightening it. It lasted two days.) When your hair is very short, your roots show quickly. And I was getting sick of touching it up. I also wanted to know what I looked like with white or gray hair. My father’s mother, whom I never knew, had stunning white hair and blue eyes. I have the blue eyes, and decided to test the hair.
Billy wasn’t thrilled with the idea. I didn’t tell him at first. I just dyed it lighter a couple of times. And then I let my hair go for a bit, and decided to get it cut REALLY short during the summer, to try and avoid the awkward growing out stage. And then keep it really short until the ends were clear. When we discussed it, he just shook his head. “You’ll look older than you are.” “Is this a good idea while you are still single?” “It is going to wash you out.” “White hair can yellow.”
Eventually he came around. And now admits that he was wrong. Of course, he helps me by giving me a fun, funky, spiky cut. When you have gray hair, you need to keep up with the cut.
But I was well past my expiration date on the fun, funky cut. Even though Billy’s cuts last a long time, my hair is so short that when it gets too long I look like a cross between Carl Perkins and George Washington. And I have to use a ton of product so it doesn’t take over. Saturday morning (the last day of week #3) I woke up, and called Dellaria. Did he have an opening. He did, at 1:30.
And so I went over to Kenmore, and visited Billy for the umpteenth time. We caught up on each other’s lives. And he cut, and thinned, and razored my hair into a new and fabulous shape. And I remembered, as I always do, the miracle that is a Billy cut. I felt lighter, younger, and prettier. I had a weekend with work events, and I was more than ready for it.
So Billy wins my fabulous event this week. I won’t nominate him every time I visit him, but he would win.
