The Voices in My Head ... and the Hair Atop It

I hear voices in my head. They’re friendly voices. Instead of telling me to cause mass societal harm, they tell me that I’m far more capable than I actually am.

One of the most dangerous of the voices tells me that if anyone anywhere can do something, I probably can too. This voice doesn’t listen to reason. It abhors experience. Time and time again, I prove that my abilities not only fail to match the majority of mankind’s, but tend to be subpar.  Especially in the functional living respect---remember the time I couldn’t even find the beach on Siesta Key?

Twice since moving to town in January, this “you’re a highly capable individual” voice---let’s call her Evil Keely---has told me that I don’t need to venture out to find a hairstylist. When my locks get ragged, I can just take the helm. After all, I bought four-dollar hair cutting scissors at Walgreens, and we certainly wouldn’t want those four dollars to go to waste.

Evil Keely has made some convincing arguments: I spend more time with my hair than anyone else, so it’s fair to assume that I know it best. I’ve also watched people cut my hair for 23 years, so a few techniques must have stuck in mind. I’ve been tragically underfunded and a haircut worth having was probably outside of my budget. And it’s only hair---it grows back.

As can be expected, Evil Keely has also missed some important counter-arguments: Style savvy is not my strong suit. I cut my hair in whatever way will allow me to leave the house with it still wet and not make people run away screaming. I get bored easily and don’t always finish the job in one go. I lack a second mirror that lets me see what the back and sides look like ... And most importantly, while I can probably manage a cut that will be passable for a week or two, stylists are able to anticipate how cuts will grow out. While my hair will grow back, weekly snips here and there to make corrections will eventually lead to me not having any hair.

A non-put-together-looking Keely I can deal with. A bald one I cannot. A girl’s gotta have standards.

Knowing that the Sarasota Film Festival---where I assume that word will have gotten out about my Elijah Wood interview and celebrities will be lining up to take pictures with and share their favorite thing about me---was quickly approaching, I cracked. Groceries and rent be damned; I was going to get a proper haircut.Decision made, I turned to Rachael Ferguson-Brown, a real estate agent for Michael Saunders and owner of an enviable head of hair. She suggested Fresh, a salon in Southside Village. Not only was it biking distance, but it would also give me the opportunity to get a treat at Morton’s Gourmet Market beforehand. Score.

I call the salon Friday morning upon awakening and am able to snag an appointment that afternoon. When I say that Rachael referred me, the receptionist is able to set me up with Richard Pizzuto, a master stylist and Rachael’s guru. The universe seems to be smiling upon this getting a haircut plan.

Arriving unfashionably early, I decide to rummage around Fifi’s. Everything the store consigns gets marked 50% off after 30 days, and I like to bargain hunt. Amongst my other delusions, I usually believe that anything I take into the fitting room will fit. Why else would they call it that? However, breaking a sweat while attempting to put on an otherwise perfect pair of white pants confirms that I have not magically become a size 0.  I should have just gone to Morton’s for the treat …

Panting and having possibly strained a muscle, I hobble over to Fresh for my 4:15 appointment and am immediately impressed. Small and very white, it reaches that right level of salon chic without crossing over into pretentious. It’s tucked away enough to be intriguing, but easy enough to find to be convenient. It’s warm and inviting and everything I want.

A pony-tailed, well put-together man comes to greet me after I check in with the desk. This is Richard, and he is about to give my head the best massage of its life. If I were to become the next J.K. Rowling, I’d pay him to shampoo my hair daily. Or at least a couple times a week … the odds of me ever being the kind of person who practices good hygiene on a daily basis are slim.

After the shampoo and some chatting, I watch Richard display an impressive poker face while investigating my hair. For some reason, I hesitate to tell him that I cut it myself. I occasionally run into people who are so effortlessly cool that I yearn to impress them. Richard is one of those types. I don’t want to disappoint him this early on in the game. Eventually I’ll tell him, but not until I have to.

We talk commonalities: both from around Philadelphia, where Richard had owned two salons in the area. We had both tried, and failed, to retire before our time (I, sadly, had not entered the work force before trying to retire in Beaufort, S. C., but that’s a story for another day).  And, we both landed in Sarasota without really knowing how or why.

As the conversation evolves, an out-of-the-ordinary sensation begins to nag at me. I know that it’s a feeling I used to be quite familiar with, but its exact nature eludes me. And then it strikes: we’re having the outlandish, entertaining, truly delightful verbal exchange that I used to find in bars after the magic number of drinks. It’s like my old favorite bar when I retired in Beaufort, or when I first went to Pastry Art and eavesdropped on entertaining conversations. Richard’s coolness balances my awkwardness and the rest of Fresh is getting on board.  A mélange of stylists and regulars are contributing to the conversation and it’s smooth sailing. The salon has a Keurig machine; maybe once I make my millions I’ll come back on kind-of-daily basis for a coffee and shampoo. I imagine Richard would be thrilled. I know I would.

Having finally confessed that my hair is such a mess because I butchered it, I realize that Richard is crafty enough to hide his clipping techniques from me. How am I ever going to emulate the cut if I don’t see how he does it? I suspect that’s his angle.However, I don’t think it’s malicious. I don’t think Richard is trying to get me in more regularly or that the salon is trying to milk me for money.  My dear pony-tailed Richard is a master stylist who has owned top-notch salons and he’s giving me a cut for only $70. It’s expensive for me, but I don’t think the majority of Sarasotans would mind forking over some of the bills they’d otherwise blow their noses with. He’s not trying to push products on me nor is he telling me I’ll need biweekly cuts to look ravishing.  He does suggest shampoo after I confess that I’m on the no ‘poo, conditioner-only train, but does it in a loving way. And he gives me a cheek kiss and tells me I’m gorgeous anyway. I’ve given him plenty of material to judge and he remains judgment-free. Plus anyone who tells me I’m good-looking and amusing is an outstanding individual in my book.

Delighted by not only the conversation and his charisma, but also the cut and excellent salvage job, I ask Richard if he’d be willing to do one of my five question interviews. He says he will. He even stays committed after I tell him that the last question will be, “What’s your favorite thing about me?” Learning this tidbit does, however, make him put a condition on the interview: he wants it to be later in the week. Fair enough---after all, when a sweaty, disheveled girl hobbles into your seat late for an appointment she made that morning and then declares that she regularly takes scissors to her un-shampooed hair, there’s a lot of good to choose from.  So it makes sense that he’ll need a few days to narrow the list down to just one favorite thing … right?

- Stay tuned for Keely's interview with master stylist Richard Pizzuto of the Fresh Salon & Spa!