Dear Jack,

I know you’re all ‘master stylist’ and everything, but we need to talk. I’ve been seeing you for a while now, but you can’t seem to remember a single thing about me. Which, in all honesty, doesn’t offend me. But you must feel as if you should, because you keep trying to suggest things as though you do remember me, yet you’re always wrong. But I’m apparently so immemorable, you don’t even REMEMBER that you’re always wrong about what you’re desperately trying to remember about me. So in the end you just keep making mistakes each visit in an attempt to guess wildly and hope you hit on something. It’s actually kind of funny to me. Sort of.

And while we’re being honest, can we just go ahead and talk about that whole When I Was At The [famous stylist] Show In [hip city] I Ran Into [other famous stylist] blahblahblahblah spin I get each visit? I mean, I suppose if you don’t remember me, you might not realize you reference the same stories all the time. But unless I’m mistaken and you are secretly yearning for my approval – which, can’t be correct if I’m so immemorable – one could assume you tell all of your clients in an attempt to up your cred, therefore, consider it a safe bet I’ve heard the story.


More or less.

So OK. You’re a nice enough guy. I’m pretty sure you’re blowing smoke up my ass when you seem quasi-interested in our conversations, but I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same after that many years of listening to prattling idiots in my chair – so I don’t fault you that. And though I’m thoroughly irritated that I came home with The Rachel haircut, effectively lopping off nearly two-year’s worth of length, I have to admit that you are not the first stylist by far to give me that cut unasked, so I’m considering this a hint from fate to stop trying to be hip (or even early 30s, apparently) and go buy some Keds and (comfy, surely) Mom jeans.

Who knows, maybe I’ll thank you for giving me permission to shop at J. Jill so early in life.

I will say that you are the most relaxing stylist I’ve ever had. You are heavenly when you so very slowly and gently comb my hair while you cut, and because cutting seven hundred layers takes a while, I was near drooling as I watched long, long… long locks of my hair slide down the cape to the floor. And maybe that’s your barbiturate to keep me from jumping out of the chair and screaming WHY IS MY HEAD UPSIDE DOWN SO YOU CAN DENUDE THE UNDER SIDE OF MY SCALP, who knows, but it works so I can’t complain. It feels marvelous.

Until, that is, you begin to attack my head like a rabid bat.

Eh. To be fair, I guess I can’t honestly verify what a rabid bat does to one’s head. But I really imagine it has to be similar to when (right as you slyly grab the can of hairspray and commence to lacquer the shit out of me) you just start frantically poking at the top of my head, desperately trying to free the imaginary bees burrowing into my ear. Scrubbing viciously as if forgetting we’ve already done the shampoo part. Backcombing everything so it stands straight up and then combing it back down again. Tousle, comb, tousle-spray-comb, comb, tousle, comb. Spray.

Jesus, man. Make up your damned mind.

Look. Frustrated as I am, I’m still predisposed to feel affection toward you either because you’re gay or you have my son’s name, or both. But I need you to get on some meds or something. Get a little fish oil in your diet. Because I don’t care what famous stylist you run around with, giving someone whiplash AND a haircut that makes them look ten years too old ALL on top of the insult of not knowing the gender of her kids is just not wise business practice. Especially since that last one is pretty much always 50/50. You really should be getting that one half the time, buddy. Like, statistically.

And that’s all I have to say. Thank you. I’ll see you in two months.