Suzy Says

Little salon in the big woods

I don’t know if this happens to the boys among you, but when we girls wake up one day and want to get our hair cut, there is no stopping us until the mission is accomplished. No matter what you do with it, you hate your hair, and lament the fact that you wasted all that time going to college/touring the world/having perfect children, or whatever else you did instead of attending beauty college. Then you could cut your own hair anytime you wanted.

If you live in a city, you generally have to wait weeks, sometimes longer, to get an appointment with the coiffeur (or coiffeuse) of the moment. In Hooterville, we don’t have that particular problem. At least Megan and I don’t.

We call our friend L and find out when he has a few minutes to practice his past art on our hopeful heads. You see, L used to be hairdresser to the stars in Beverly Hills back in the day, before he moved to Hooterville and became hairstylist to the Peakall girls. I have tried without success to get him to dish on the bad old Beverly Hills days, but he is not one for looking back. Also, it makes him shudder.

Unlike city girls, who can hop in a cab or an outfit-destroying subway* and be at their salon in mere minutes, our salon requires a little more work.

You drive down the road for a couple of miles and then turn left. This road may in fact be even bumpier and more pot-holed than the one you just left. You pass llama farms and eccentric housing, and see a sign that reads “Road Narrows”. You think it must be some kind of joke, but it’s not. After a while, you’re down to one lane, driving veeeery slooooowly in case there is oncoming traffic coming around the bend.

Eventually, it degenerates into little more than a dirt track, and you suddenly feel like you’re driving a semi. When you finally arrive at the parking place far above Salon L, you are so relieved to get out of the car that you practically beg your laughing sister to drive you home.

We ignored the slightly forbidding gate:

and began our descent among the ancient redwood trees and peeping frogs. Not for the first time, I wondered how on earth L’s house was ever built, when everything had to be hauled down this same narrow, slippery path to a building site far below, perched precariously over a seasonal stream and waterfall.

I stopped to admire this shell of a once-mighty tree:

And, to be honest, to catch my breath while trying not to think about climbing back up in just a couple of hours.

Eventually we arrived, to be greeted happily by L and his adorable dog. We spent some time chatting and catching up as well as coiffing, and a good time was had by all until it was time climb back up the muddy Stairmaster through the rapidly darkening woods. Nothing like combining cardio with coiffage, I (never) say!

*My boss was in New York last week, bemoaning the traffic and the meanness of Manhattan drivers. He swears he will never complain about Bay Area traffic ever again. We’ll see.