The Man Who Cut Me

I miss Shane.

You won’t know this, because I never spoke of him (even those closest to me weren’t really aware of his existence), but Shane was one of the most important people in my life. Our relationship was perfect. We never fought, we always had fun together, he knew exactly what I wanted and half the time he gave it to me without me even having to articulate it.

I left Shane behind me when I moved to Melbourne, and although we had a fond goodbye, I realise now that I should have said so much more. I should have tried to figure out a way for us to work around the long distance. I should have promised to make an effort. If nothing else, I should have told him how much he meant to me. I just didn’t realise it myself at the time.

It’s only now that I’ve had to adjust to life without Shane – even worse, to try and find someone to take his place – that I realise the depth of our relationship, and the impact not having him in my life is having on me.

Shane, if you’re reading this – I loved our time together. I will cherish it always. And if you ever move to Melbourne, I would very much like to pick up where we left off.

Because my hairdresser down here isn’t nearly as good.

Okay fine, that was the lamest misdirection joke ever, but I’m serious about not realising how awesome Shane was until I had to find someone new. The man was a talented hairdresser, he always remembered both what I liked and how he did it the last time, he gave fantastic head massages (like, “suddenly very grateful for the confinement of denim” fantastic), and most importantly, he was a master of small talk.

To me, the small talk is the very worst element of any professional/client relationship. I hate initiating it, I hate responding to it. I particularly hate hairdresser small talk because it always starts the same way:

Sooooo, you got any big plans for the weekend?

And I always have to answer the same way:

…No.

The conversation is already doomed, because I’m convinced the hairdresser thinks I’m completely lame for not having a series of wild nights planned, and 70% of the time the hairdresser does think I’m completely lame for not having a series of wild nights planned.

But Shane? Shane never asked that question. Shane treaded very softly at first, asking about my likes and dislikes. He eventually gleaned that I wasn’t a big party animal, but I did love movies and videogames – and so he always knew to ask about movies that were showing and which videogames I’d played recently.

And it wasn’t a painful interrogation, either. Sometimes hairdressers just drill you with so many questions that you feel like you’re in a bad cop movie and want to confess to something:

Got any big plans for the weekend? (GAH!)
What do you do for a living?
Do you love it?
Got a partner on the go, have you?
What sort of music do you like?
Are you going to [locally significant event]?
Did you see Masterchef last night?

YES! ALRIGHT! I DID IT! I SHOT HIM! JUST SPARE ME YOUR INFERNAL QUESTIONS!

But Shane was never like that. It was never one sided. Shane would always contribute with stories of his own. Eventually we were just chatting like regular mates – the only difference being that he was playing with my hair the entire time. And who knows? Depending on the types of boundaries you have with your friends, maybe that isn’t different at all? Maybe, much like the way you make your friend who plays the guitar bust it out at every party, all of Shane’s friends are constantly bugging him to give them impromptu head massages? Lucky bastards. I bet they wear denim all the time. They  probably don’t appreciate him like they should. They’re probably taking him for granted even now. If only they knew what I knew. Oh, Shane! You were the wind beneath my bangs!

No. This is not healthy. There’s no point dwelling in the past. Shane and I are over now, and I have to find a new hairdresser. I am trying – I went to one today. But, I don’t know that I’m ready for that commitment yet. I think she’s just a rebound stylist. I can’t see myself going back to her at all. She cut my hair competently, and her small talk wasn’t too painful, but she mumbled. And the salon felt like like it was constructed out of spare parts from other salons. It just didn’t feel right. I need to find myself. We had fun, but she knew what this was going in. It’s not her, it’s me.

I think maybe I shouldn’t go looking for a long term hairdresser so soon after ending it with my last one. Maybe I need to just play the field for a while. Get a haircut from a new stylist every time. You know, sow my wild hairs a bit. It might be shallow and meaningless, but at least I’m putting my scalp out there. Otherwise I’ll just end up at home, depressed, cutting my own hair all day.