Finding My Center

Jessica Daly

Before I left the country for four months, my hairstylist expressly forbade me to let “any of those wack-job Europeans” (his words, not mine) touch my hair. After the amount of money and time I have invested into my current head of beautiful blonde locks, I was not about to mess it up and displease him. 

To be honest, I am afraid of him.  He has tattoos peeking up above the collar of his T-shirt, along with long hair and an engineering degree.  He was born Jeff but now spells it “Jeph” just so he can seem like more of a poser. 

He is straight, has a beer belly and builds his own motorcycles; somehow the combination of all these factors makes him very, very scary.  This is a man who once, when he glimpsed my attempt at a breezy, wavy, summer hairdo, whispered harshly in my ear I should go to the bathroom and reconsider my look before appearing in public with the coif of a “crack addict.” 

I put up with this abuse because the man is a genius.  He works at 6 Salon, located in Birmingham and Royal Oak, and better known for its stylish patrons and employees with the kind of attitudes that make them seem enviably cool. Here in East Lansing we refer to that sort of behavior as heinously bitchy. Even if you are the boldest of aspiring fashionistas, 6 Salon is an intimidating place because of this long-haired, tattooed stylist with a motorcycle.

Due to the four-month hiatus from updating my highlights, naturally Jeph was the first person I saw upon my return to Detroit in May.  This was the first time I have ever seen him pleased at the inches of brown roots invading the top of my head—they were proof of my fidelity.  After the application of highlights, a washing, the slathering of a base break on my roots and another wash, my man dropped the bombshell.  “You are now going to wear your hair in a center part.” 

To digress a bit, I have been following the center part trend with dread for about a year now, knowing that some point it will catch up with me.  This is how I felt a few years ago when, while reviewing photos from runway shows, I glimpsed straight-leg jeans, which had been buried in the recesses of my memories from first grade in hopes of never surfacing again.  Of course I jumped on that bandwagon after a little cajoling. 

But center parts?  These were abandoned in early high school once people learned about the flattering side-swept bangs look.  No one looks good with a side part except people with perfect bone structures like Kate Moss.  While in Europe, I looked at photos of the offerings for fall fashion and everyone from Marc Jacobs to Carolina Herrera were shoving stick-thin models down the runway with pin-straight parts right in the center of their perfect foreheads.  This did not bode well for me, I knew, and I dreaded this first meeting with my stylist when I came home.

Though I am lacking perfect bone structure, I realized immediately my hairstylist was not offering a gentle suggestion.  This was a command, and I was aware that it would be ludicrous to disobey.  It reminded me of the time when I thought I wanted to cut my hair into a Nicole Richie-esque bob and was met with a firm, “Never.”  No explanation or reasoning, just outright refusal.  I learned my lesson and this time I would not be arguing with Jeph.

After his myriad assistants blow-dried my hair for an hour, they spun me around and let me look in the mirror.  Instinctively, I reached up to run my fingers through my hair, as is my habit, and was met with a cruel slap on the wrist from my hairstylist, who had appeared out of nowhere.  He informed me in no uncertain terms that I liked my hair and would wear it in this manner every day.

I was a good sport at first.  I tried my best to replicate the way his assistants had blow-dried my hair.  Michigan State University is not the best place to try out high-fashion styles that don’t apply well to the masses, but I wore my new style to a party in East Lansing, jealous the whole time of other girls’ glamorous asymmetrical  looks.  I tried air-drying, straightening, and even spent hours trying to make my hair look like I had just rolled out of bed, but to no avail.  The part does not look good on me. 

Despite the fact my hair was cut into this specific style, this morning as I blow-dried my hair, I did it in my old, familiar, manner—parted on the side.  If my hair stylist ever reads this, I will be punished for my behavior.  Otherwise, I will show up to my next appointment with some brown roots and a center part, which I haphazardly forced into my hair in the car on the way there. 

The situation is similar to when a dear grandmother buys you a hideous wool sweater and it sits in your closet all year until she comes from Florida to visit and you’re forced to wear it, itching and scratching, through the entire Thanksgiving dinner--except in this case it is my own hair I am feeling displeased with rather than the by-product of a farm animal.  My stylist will have a heart attack when he knows I have just compared him to my grandmother, but truth be told, he had it coming.