I have been looking for a decent male hairdresser for years.

Particularly one who would squeal with delight as he runs his fingers through my hair. One who would scold me for using cheap and nasty shampoos. One who would be inspired by the colours on my face and the changing season outside to make love to my hair and tame the wild beast that it is.

But I have found not one. They all curse under their breaths.
They smile and say, My don’t you have thick hair!

Gee, my scissors will go blunt after I’ve finished with you!

Wow, I’ve never cut hair so thick before!

Would you like me to thin your hair out?

I just want a trim goddamnit. Why must I always walk out of a salon a victim of sneaky evil hairdresser tricks that melt away the moment I get wet?

So for my birthday I went to a tiny hair salon. The sign said “Specialises in Asian hair”.

He pranced out and the first thing I noticed were the tiger stripes painted on his finger nails. He was lovely.
And he did a pretty good job.

He didn’t handle my hair like straw.
He didn’t grimace as his scissors crunched through my hair.
He gave me some good advice for keeping my long, thick, black hair healthy and shiny.

And he swore I shouldn’t bother with a straightening perm – I should just invest in a good ceramic hair iron. Damn. There goes my hope of a quick-fix solution. I mean, who on earth has time to straighten their hair every morning??

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