My hairgod has gone MIA.
Yes, my hairgod. The woman who has been doing amazing things to my hair since I stumbled upon her two summers ago. She sports crazy, long nails, painted with shades of neon. Her hair color changes every time I see her (last time was green). She talks incessantly with a thick carribean accent and shoves me jovially (and forcefully) at the height of her amusing story-tellings. Her amusement amuses me, and even though I never quite understand what she’s saying, I understand the person behind it. My regular nods and smiles are good enough for her. Sometimes, one of her jokes will actually get through to both of us and my eyes widen in the absurity of it all, and we laugh, bodaciously, loudly, heads bobbing, shoulder shaking, and then suddenly she will wave her hand and take a snip at my hair, and my heart lodges in my throat for just a second, a mixture of fear and exhilaration.
So, that’s my hairgod. She’s irreplaceable, and she’s missing.
Well, not missing…a number of things could have happened. She could’ve left the country on a whim. She could’ve moved without telling me. She could be sick. She could have turned off her phone or worse, can’t afford to pay it anymore. She stopped working in a salon last year and I started getting haircuts at her cramped, bachelor apartment. I would wash my hair before going, because it’s not feasible to wash it there. I don’t mind though I do miss her amazing head massages. The room is filled with used furnitures and the TV is always on, tuned to one of the daytime talk shows. She liked Oprah. She was always upbeat, and I never knew if it was a cover for something deeper. I know that she loves cutting hair, and she especially loves cutting asian hair. And she is kind. She needed money, but it was never the overarching purpose. Once I was in a hurry to go to a formal event, and she meticulously made me wait until every last strand was perfectly curled and coiffed. Then she walked me to the front door with an umbrella in case it was raining. We never talked about it, but I knew she was struggling. I try not to think about the last scenario.
Now, my hair is overgrown and I am desperate for a cut. She’s not picking up the phone, and I haven’t been able to concentrate at work. I keep wondering why. I keep playing with my hair. I could go to another salon but, the thing is, what if she calls me after? She can use the money, and somehow it would feel like a betrayal.
I am this close to picking up a pair of scissors and doing it myself.
Her name is Jossett. And I never knew how much I miss her until now.