In Which I Break the Bank for a Worthy Reason

On Saturday, I treated myself to a very indulgent trip to the hair salon. This trip to the salon marked a return to the place that I originally picked, shortly after I moved back to Los Angeles from New York, for the owner's expertise in balyage, the hand-painted highlights that make foil highlights seem like a caveman's hair-coloring technique. Since, I've been getting my color done at another salon, which I picked strictly for the convenience of its Doheny location and for the price-consciousness afforded by a relatively junior colorist (oh, and for the wi-fi). I did love my Brazilian Jewish stylist who was such a fun conversationalist, and whose opinions on the Sex and the City movie were totally illuminating, and who met his boyfriend in synagogue in San Francisco, which I always thought was darling (and who did Britney's extensions, by the way, but that's neither here nor there).

But here's the thing: The color wasn't great. Look, you can't throw good money after bad, even if it's not an unreasonable amount of good money. It was time for a change, and this time I felt like doing something for reasons other than convenience and economy. I just wanted to do it right.

So it was back to Venice, where I sipped red wine as the Saturday breeze wafted in through the open, garage-style doors of the salon, which shares its Abbot-Kinney space with an art gallery. Us Weekly issues dot rattan tabletops in the adjacent garden and paper lanterns sway in the tree branches overhead. It's an appropriately reverential place for my hair, about which I'm freakishly precious, but at least I can be honest with myself about that. It just is what it is.

For four hours, I took residence in this place, swapping stories about men and beach hair and sushi with the colorist. She said he'd left her four months ago, but she always knew he'd come back. I told her I was glad for her that he was back, and that she should make sure to be true to herself and to communicate better this time. She said it's crazy hot in here, isn't it? No, I said, I like the heat. I'm a summer person. Then she put me under the dryer and I baked and shvitzed and ate my words. Do you know that your hair takes insanely long to lift? No, I hadn't heard that before. Well, it does, but it's going to look amazing. You're going to totally love it. It's just what you need. Five more minutes.

After assistant Frenchie (and you know I avoid using names here, but that one's just too good) rinsed out the color and did two shampoos, a conditioning treatment, and two different glosses (roots and ends), it was back in the chair for the cut. (The blue-eyed boy used to trim my ends as I sat on the rim of the bathtub at home, but it's been years since I've had a professional cut. Much too terrified for that under normal circumstances.) When the shears came out this time, I was so proud of myself. No tears, no physical, visceral, fight-or-flight reaction. Just, you know, cut off the tired bits. It's time. Do some fun layers. Anyway, I'd already said my peace, and she totally got it. Go for layers, but leave. the. length. For god's sake.

Afterward, at the register, I plunked my credit card down for an amount that was roughly equivalent to my rent when I lived in Oakland, or my plane tickets for my Caribbean vacation, or three months of all-California-access membership at my fancy gym (and that's actually saying something). It's liberating, really, to just be like: I did this for myself today just because I wanted it. It's kind of obscene, OK, sure, but I worked for it, I didn't steal it. And I deserve it.

I wish there were some dramatic dénouement in which I got to leave the salon with the bounciest, shiniest, most perfect head of blond curls ever, but there's no such moment, because: Almost no one knows how to style curly hair, even if they can cut it and color it. She tried to scrunch some sort of pomade in there and diffuse it and call it a day, but nothing works like mousse, which no one wants to use for the reason that it has an '80s reputation and is sort of drying, but people: It's the only thing that works.

Anyway, I went for sushi with a full head of frizz on Saturday night. And it wasn't until today, when I showered and styled my hair with the standard two hands full of mousse that I saw the result of an entire Saturday afternoon and evening spent in an airy Venice salon chair. And it was good.