Some years ago, I was the unfortunate owner of a big set of fire engine red dreadlocks. Yes, it was all my hair. If you're thinking that all Asian chicks have soft, straight, silky hair, well, congratulations: you're wrong! To be fair, I'm sure years of bleaching & coloring, and wearing it teased into a beehive or huge bouffant didn't help. Regardless, I wound up with a scalp full of tangled, knotted hair. Personally, I liked this look so much that I actually went through a red dreadlocks phase no less than three times in my life.
The last time, though, will forever be the LAST TIME. Picture me now, surly, permanently inked and scowling with a cigarette outside of my office building in the Herald Square area. It was mid-afternoon, a lovely summer day, and I was watching tourists and shoppers trundle by. One man, looking disheveled and unkempt, paused to ask me for a light.
I flicked my matchbook at him, and said, "Keep it. I've got more upstairs."
"Thanks," he replied. "Nice tattoos," he added, gesturing to my arm.
"Uh, thanks," I shrugged
He walked away only to double back a few seconds later. He stood closer than I thought was comfortable, and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Can I ask you a question?" he asked, doing just that.
"Uh, yeah." I inched away.
"Do you know where I can score some smack around here?"
I replied in the negative, tacking on a unauthentic "sorry," suggested that he go down to Avenue C, and went back upstairs to my office.
Apparently, I looked like a junkie. You want heroin? Ask Scott Weiland. I'm a professional lady! (With fire engine red dreadlocks, a pierced nose, and a body full of tattoos. Hmm.)
Shortly after that incident, I decided I needed to polish the old turd, and went to a salon in Forest Hills to have the dreadlocks cut off, and the remnants of my strands colored back to my natural black. The result? I looked like an 18 year old browsing your local Hot Topic to buy a Slipknot sweatshirt. Fancy pants salons where cashmere twin set wearing women ask for golden highlights or weekly blowouts do not specialize in making ladies like me look good.
With my newly shorn head covered by a cap, I went to visit Kristi, the owner of High Horse Salon. At the time, she worked at another spot, and came highly recommended by many friends. After a lengthy chat where she inspected my disastrous hair, she admitted that there wasn't much she could do other than give it some shape. "You'll have to let it grow out, but at least it will look good growing out," she said, picking up her scissors.
Twenty minutes later, gone was my blockhead! Huzzah! There were layers, depth, and most of all, no suspect evidence that I was a suburban angst-ridden teen. I tipped her well as I was so pleased, and left the salon, hat in hand.
The whole incident that led up to me visiting Kristi was so traumatizing that I didn't get a haircut for two whole years. But when I needed one, I returned to her. As she tousled my locks, she looked at me and said, "Hey, I cut your hair once before, didn't I?"
In the mirror, I looked at her and said, "Yes."
"That was a long time ago," she marveled.
"Over two years," I admitted.
"Dude," she said. "Your hair got real long!"
So yeah, go to Kristi, or any of the lovely ladies at her salon.
Notes: cash only, make an appointment (good luck getting a walk-in on the weekends! They're always booked solid), and don't wait two years for your next hair cut. read more