It's not much of a secret that I have a love-hate relationship with my hair. Great when it's done, but almost never have any interest in washing, styling or braiding it because there's no such thing as a "quick" way to do my hair other than to just chop it all off. And since I'm not interested in rocking a baldy I've spent most of my life searching for the perfect stylist, which I wrote about for Clutch this Thursday.
Here's a snippet:
I hate doing my own hair. Always have.
It’s thick and long and it sure is pretty when it’s all done up, but darn if I want to do it. I don’t want to twist it. I don’t want to braid it. I don’t want to blow dry it straight or flat iron it. But I can’t go the easy and cheapest way out (cutting it) because of a pact I made with myself six years ago that I wouldn’t cut my hair again. I did this because, every time I cut it, I regret it. Anytime I drastically change my hair, I want it back to how it used to be. So I decided to stop changing it so flippantly.
Therefore, I was left with a choice – lose four hours every weekend doing my own hair or pay a stylist to do it every two-to-three weeks.
I decided to eat out less and go with the stylist.
But I, and my hair, haven’t always lived in places where you have a great selection in stylists. In fact, I started out reporting in a lot of desert towns with small minority populations like Midland, TX and Bakersfield, Calif. Usually there were two licensed black hair salons and both treated you with the kind of disdain you get in towns where there’s no competition.
Of COURSE they weren’t good with your hair, were rude, late, overbooked, and charged insane prices for the most basic styles and treatments … but where else are you going to go?
But leave it to me, my hair and my money — I was willing to take it someplace else, any place else, really, than endure women who would slather perm on my head, but then argue with me over whether it was burning my scalp or not.