November #3: Hair did

It’s November.

I got my hair did. I realize it is 2010 and I have new perspective.

If I were to write comprehensive post about the number of men and women that have advised me about my hair, you might be nervous. And you might think that it resembled my disjointed love life. But disjointed love life posts are so 2000.

Hair stylists on the other hand make for interesting fodder. And best friends.

The better half of my brain tells me that letting an exceptionally good looking, bald-headed man talk you into cutting three inches off your hair is a bad idea.

That is unless this man is like family.

Meet Brandon.

I met Brandon when I was 12. He was the first man to cut my hair. The first man I met to be openly gay. The first openly, gay man that my entire family fell in love with and embraced as their own. Our own.

Brandon is “as southern is, as southern comes”.

He loves his family. He’s hard working. He’s built a business to be admired for.

I’m a problem client for Brandon.  A transient client lifestyle is the nemesis of a hairdresser. I have been the one to travel in and out of Brandon’s life.

So it goes like this…

Somer is 12. She gets her first haircut by Brandon.

Somer is a teen. She is totally curious about blond highlights and gay culture. Brandon schools her on both.

Somer is in college. Confused. Starting to be lost. Brandon explains that there are many ways to look at the world.

And we can throw a bit of red and use a raiser cut if it makes you feel more unique. And by the way, just be you. Your parents will be okay if you turn out a liberal.

Both of my parents go to Brandon. Mom for color and cut. Dad for a very deliberate style trim.

Somer moves to NYC.

Brandon is proud of me.

Somer comes back home on occasion and Brandon does her hair. He tells her that soon I will leave him for other hairdressers.

This is the natural progression of life.

 I argue I will never leave him.

Years later, I have lost touch with Brandon.

I have succumbed to sleeping around with a variety of hairdressers. Women. Men. Straight. Gay. NYC. Maui. LA. Pixie Cuts. Blond highlights. And dark and stormy color.

My parents both religiously visit Brandon. They update him as to my latest escapades across the country.

Years later, I move back to NC. I think I am way to broke to visit Brandon who now owns a swanky salon in downtown Raleigh. I don’t visit him because I am embarrassed that a man that was like a big brother to me for most of my teen years is now a relationship that I keep up with through my parents.

Brandon asks my Mom (being a smartass),

Is Somer out of that lesbian stage?

For which my mother says,

I’ll be sure to ask her.

For which she relays the message.

And I say,

Oh, lord. What was the last thing I told him?

I call Brandon.

He says,

I knew that would get you to call me. I just miss you.

Truth is that I’ve missed Brandon. I didn’t realize how much I missed him until I was face to face with him debunking lesbain myths. And letting him manage my hair. And letting him understand that I’ve come along way since he first cut my hair at age 12.

Life has a way of changing you. Changing the way you think. The things you believe and the way you lead your life.

15 years ago I may have dated a man that would have had no tolerance for Brandon. That’s not the case for my life today.

Brandon said to me tonight,

Honey, we’ve got to cut this shit.

He held three inches of my hair and looked at me.

Brandon knows more about me than some of the men I’ve dated. He loves me for who I am and want to be.

I say to Brandon,

I guess it is time. I trust you. Let’s take it off.

He smiles and grabs scissors.

I say,

I’m at a point where I’ve got to shake it up. Do things different. Maybe this haircut is a start.

He cuts three inches off my hair. He says,

Honey, don’t beat yourself up. It all happens when it’s supposed to happen.

He’s talking about my love life.

He knows I’m wanting a partner. As he cuts, he searches through his list of men that are straight that might be an intersting fit. It’s a relatively short list.

I love this man.

My hair went from hanging to my breast to hanging to just below my collar bone.

Brandon often tells me often that he is proud of me. That he is proud of who I have become.

And I can’t believe that after 20 plus years I am sitting back in his chair. Where he has built a well known business and mastered his art. And where being openly gay is not a matter a conversation but a matter of mundane reality.

I have new hair. An old hairdresser. A friend that is a bit like an older brother. And someone that says to me,

Girlfriend, it’s time to change it up.

It’s November.

I’m trying to change it up. And really grateful for folks, southern folks, that have circled back in my life and taught me a ton of life lessons. Lessons that look like dead ends and backwards ways of thinking. But have a way of staring back in the mirror with a whole new reality.

I like what I’m looking at.

And for that I say,

Thank you.