charcoal and the highlights too chunky and it doesn’t match your own pigment and then you look green. You don’t want to look green. You need more warm. Let me make you look beautiful. I have everything with me. Come to my room later and I will make you look sexy.”
His sincerity and confidence, combined with the no-holds-barred surrender of my spa brain, propelled me without hesitation to say yes.
I tell you this because Pascal, a man I had known foronly four days, a man who could have been a serial killer, who could have cut my throat instead of cutting my hair, this heterosexual hairstyling stranger, I completely trusted. Alone in his phoneless, carbohydrate-free room, isolated at a spa in the middle of the California desert, I surrendered to the hands of Pascal Bensimon and was given the best haircut of my life. He coloured all fifty shades of grey with the artistry of Van Gogh and blew my hair out so full and sexy that Jennifer Lopez would have wept. From that moment on I became his groupie, a devoted fan, a crazy addict.
After my first haircut with Pascal, I trusted no one else to touch my hair. I know it seems preposterous that I couldn’t find an equally good hairstylist in Manhattan, the mecca of sophistication and beauty, but I couldn’t. Occasionally, however, when my work schedule prohibited me from making the twelve-hour commitment to Atlanta, I would be forced to go to a salon in New York. I’d book an appointment with some famous stylist to the stars who came highly recommended, and in good faith I would sit in his or her chair, wringing my hands incessantly and trying to conceal my increasing anxiety. None of the stylists, however, was as invested in the final result as Pascal was. They were indifferent and aloof. And I was intimidated. I would leave the salon enraged at the crazy cost and the inhumane treatment by the stupid Pink-wannabe technicians, and what’s worse, the cookie-cutter matronly hairdo they’d give me. Most of the time, I’d leave looking like Leona Helmsley. I counted the days until I could fly back to Atlanta, where Pascal, my saviour,would restore my roots to their original colour and reinvigorate my confidence to the likes of Nicki Minaj.
My hair obsession was excessive, yes, but like an addict, I was unable to stop. I began to lie to my friends. I told them I was flying to Georgia for work, or visiting an old college roommate, or conducting a master class in acting at a local high school, or doing research at a restaurant chain because I was thinking of opening a raw food café.
Eventually, exhausted by my lies and running out of creative excuses, I came clean to a couple of friends. They were appalled. I think the word “insane” was bantered about. And then I became indignant.
“You know, it actually costs me less to fly to Atlanta than it does to get my hair cut at a fancy salon on Fifth Avenue,” I argued. “And Pascal’s cuts are consistent. And he’s not condescending,” I rationalized. “I mean, I am so sick of narcissistic assholes. They are defensive and they don’t listen. They are so full of shit. And it’s not as if I haven’t tried,” I pleaded.
I’d gone a few times to a fancy hair salon on Madison Avenue where the owner cuts everyone’s hair from Hillary Clinton to Madonna—at least that’s what he tells me. Anyway, I kept returning in spite of his cocky attitude because, miraculously, a few months ago he gave me a brilliant haircut.
“Oh my God, Jerome, I love what you’ve done,” I said, stroking his already inflamed ego. “It’s beautiful. And hip and youthful. Please do this every time.”
Well, you’d think I’d insulted him. He moved on to his next client, some young movie star I was told, who I didn’trecognize but he was all over, and without looking back at me he nodded his head dismissively and walked away.
The next appointment came, and I was giddy with anticipation. But after he finished with me, the haircut this time
His sincerity and confidence, combined with the no-holds-barred surrender of my spa brain, propelled me without hesitation to say yes.
I tell you this because Pascal, a man I had known foronly four days, a man who could have been a serial killer, who could have cut my throat instead of cutting my hair, this heterosexual hairstyling stranger, I completely trusted. Alone in his phoneless, carbohydrate-free room, isolated at a spa in the middle of the California desert, I surrendered to the hands of Pascal Bensimon and was given the best haircut of my life. He coloured all fifty shades of grey with the artistry of Van Gogh and blew my hair out so full and sexy that Jennifer Lopez would have wept. From that moment on I became his groupie, a devoted fan, a crazy addict.
After my first haircut with Pascal, I trusted no one else to touch my hair. I know it seems preposterous that I couldn’t find an equally good hairstylist in Manhattan, the mecca of sophistication and beauty, but I couldn’t. Occasionally, however, when my work schedule prohibited me from making the twelve-hour commitment to Atlanta, I would be forced to go to a salon in New York. I’d book an appointment with some famous stylist to the stars who came highly recommended, and in good faith I would sit in his or her chair, wringing my hands incessantly and trying to conceal my increasing anxiety. None of the stylists, however, was as invested in the final result as Pascal was. They were indifferent and aloof. And I was intimidated. I would leave the salon enraged at the crazy cost and the inhumane treatment by the stupid Pink-wannabe technicians, and what’s worse, the cookie-cutter matronly hairdo they’d give me. Most of the time, I’d leave looking like Leona Helmsley. I counted the days until I could fly back to Atlanta, where Pascal, my saviour,would restore my roots to their original colour and reinvigorate my confidence to the likes of Nicki Minaj.
My hair obsession was excessive, yes, but like an addict, I was unable to stop. I began to lie to my friends. I told them I was flying to Georgia for work, or visiting an old college roommate, or conducting a master class in acting at a local high school, or doing research at a restaurant chain because I was thinking of opening a raw food café.
Eventually, exhausted by my lies and running out of creative excuses, I came clean to a couple of friends. They were appalled. I think the word “insane” was bantered about. And then I became indignant.
“You know, it actually costs me less to fly to Atlanta than it does to get my hair cut at a fancy salon on Fifth Avenue,” I argued. “And Pascal’s cuts are consistent. And he’s not condescending,” I rationalized. “I mean, I am so sick of narcissistic assholes. They are defensive and they don’t listen. They are so full of shit. And it’s not as if I haven’t tried,” I pleaded.
I’d gone a few times to a fancy hair salon on Madison Avenue where the owner cuts everyone’s hair from Hillary Clinton to Madonna—at least that’s what he tells me. Anyway, I kept returning in spite of his cocky attitude because, miraculously, a few months ago he gave me a brilliant haircut.
“Oh my God, Jerome, I love what you’ve done,” I said, stroking his already inflamed ego. “It’s beautiful. And hip and youthful. Please do this every time.”
Well, you’d think I’d insulted him. He moved on to his next client, some young movie star I was told, who I didn’trecognize but he was all over, and without looking back at me he nodded his head dismissively and walked away.
The next appointment came, and I was giddy with anticipation. But after he finished with me, the haircut this time
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