Get The Red Out

The salon I have chosen for my first Chicago hair cut is four blocks from my apartment. It's on Dearborn, a street name that dings the little Midwestern memory bell in my head--the one that hasn't stopped ringing since I got here. My dad traveled to Dearborn, Michigan often for work. I grew up hearing the word without ever thinking how curious a compound it really is. Dearborn. A sobriquet for another time. 

It's on Dearborn, but in a direction I haven't walked yet on that particular street. I have so barely scratched the surface here. The first thing I notice is there's no doormat. Not in the tiny anteroom, nor at the salon's entrance. It's 9am and they've just opened. I'm the first appointment of the day, rescheduled by them last minute from a later slot. "Do you mind coming in earlier? We have a huge gap, it would really help us out." Of course I say yes, but I do so quelling a tinge of annoyance that I'll have to wake up early on my day off.

However, my days off are Saturday and Sunday, every single week. That is a triumph I can lean on, if I am a little sleepy.

I step into the space and lightly stamp my boots to shake off the snow. A man enters from the salon's back room and begins readying one of the stations for the day. He smiles my way, but remains quiet. I feel the need to say something. "There's no doormat!" I exclaim, trying to excuse the puddle of water I'm creating. He smiles bigger and walks toward me. He doesn't introduce himself, but it's clear from his dress and comportment that this is his salon. When he takes my coat I take in coffee-black eyes and a deep sense of mansuetude. A calmness that matches the empty salon and the blanketed sidewalks outside. 

"I'm not used to the snow," I continue, ridiculously. "I just moved here from LA." Where is this non-sequitur coming from? What am I doing?

"Ah," he says softly. "That explains it." Explains what? I suddenly feel sharply self-conscious in my hoodie and jeans. Have my clothes given me away? Is it that obvious I'm an invasive species?

Once situated in the seat furthest from the door, I announce I'm going to be his easiest client ever. While I enumerate my very short list of very basic desires, he gently plays with my hair. I want the same two things I ever want: cut what you have to so it's healthy and try to get the red out without darkening it. This second item is my long-running fantasy. I have been assured by anyone licensed to bear scissors that red is my destiny. Something about the undertones in my hair, I don't know. But I was born a redhead and I am doomed to die one, apparently. Ash-less to ash-less, dust to dust.

Mish (whose name I learn from the girl that steps in to apply my color) tells me he can get me to the cooler shade I want. "I'll use ash to tone down the red. We'll see how it comes out today, but within another visit or so you should be good." The assured way he says this gives me hope. Also: I'm on a program! A program to de-redify my hair! 

My color is applied by a girl whose expertly waved, cascading locks remind me how boring a client I must be. As she paints on chemicals that make my scalp itch furiously, I stare at her light blue Converse. She definitely changes shoes at work, like me. Her perfectly worn in sneakers are nowhere near as try hard as my squeaky new boots. I feel devastatingly uncool. 

Color girl and I talk about my recent move. She has a friend who just came back to Chicago from LA, and we compare notes. Her friend has told her that Los Angeles is nothing like it's portrayed in the movies. I confirm this, and many of her friend's other criticisms. Yes, it really is that dirty. Yes, it really is that crowded. Yes, it really is that hot. She wants to know if people in LA really are all narcissists. Here I tread lightly. "No..." I start without conviction. "But it's influencer central out there. And it's not a really good place to be, unless you have a lot of money. Or you're in the industry. But most people that think they're in the industry are just extras, or comedians, or, like, used up actors who eventually give up and get real jobs, but they stay because their friends are there. It's a weird place." She nods, absorbing. 

When I learn she has an hour commute I turn in the chair to face her. "You must love working here," I say, amazed. She laughs. Further to my amazement (and delight): she doesn't drive. It's an hour train ride. Public transportation in Chicago really is all that. Confirmed. I sit up straighter, gloating to myself. I knew it. I remember something Costa said about cheaper rents, further out from downtown. I wonder just how cheap it would be if I was willing to take on a twenty, thirty minute commute...

By the time I am handed back to Mish I have narrowed my Pinterest haircut selections down to one favorite. The model has fine reddish hair, like me. A side part, like me. Her hair dusts the tops of her shoulders, mostly one length, in a wave so slight it looks accidental. Bed head, but a really lucky bout of bed head. "Ignore her color," I say unnecessarily, "but the cut and style. That would work, right?" I peer up at the man I have already decided I will entrust my hair to, for however long I remain in Chicago. He's perfect. Relaxed, soft-spoken, a countervail to my awkward energy. Studying the picture, he asks several questions to further clarify exactly what I want. I appreciate and respect this thoroughness very much. Measure twice, cut once indeed.

And for the next thirty minutes I am treated to the gentlest hair cut and styling of my life. No one, not even my best friend, has even been so delicate with my (delicate) strands. Hair stylists have schedules to keep like everyone else; not their problem my fine hair will beak easily under their hurried combs.

But not Mish. Mish tenderly separates the tiniest sections of my hair, using his hands more than the rough bristled brush. I sit quietly and still as can be. Mish on the other hand grows talkative as he twists soft spirals in my hair. Telling me how much I'm going to love Chicago. Telling me to just wait until Spring. And then Summer. And oh, Fall. He looks at me in the mirror and makes promises of Chicago's beauty and wonder. And I believe all of them.

It feels less like a treatment than a ceremony. He is so exquisitely gentle I never once feel the tug of his brush on my scalp. And my hair, which has been drying this whole time in a victoriously cool shade of light brown, responds with shine and bounce. I am ecstatic. The woman in the mirror smiles back at me, from under her mask. She beams at the man whose dark eyes flash in mirth at her obvious delight. He told me he could get the red out. Did I not believe him?

I did, of course. Never doubted him. 

Paid up and with a pledge to return, I shimmy back into my coat. In my excitement, I forget to put my gloves on before getting outside. That's a big no no; the cold will lock into my fingers and not let go. But today I don't notice it. My squeaky new boots crunch the snow underneath and the wind whips delicious smelling hair all around my face. I'm buoyed by the successful new connection.

Life can change. One of my newest, most powerful mantras floats up, like a snowflake falling in reverse. Life can change. In with the new and out with the red--I mean old.