Pretty cool, huh?
Imagine sitting in your stylist's chair as she gives you a new haircut. You've shown her the exact style you want on your cell phone or magazine. But now she's working from memory or requesting to see the picture again. And when it's all done, it still isn't quite what you were hoping for.
Samsung Electronics may have solved this problem. It has introduced an interactive mirror display. The first-of-its-kind, 55-inch mirror has made its debut at LEEKAJA HAIRBIS’ Jamsil salon in Seoul, Korea. It won't be long before you and your stylist can consult on various styles on the mirror and determine the best look for you. Want your bob shorter with a bump or longer and straight? You can pinpoint the style you want, check out latest news about the style, and then watch as it comes to life.
Pretty cool, huh?
So there you are sitting in your hairstylist's chair. Perhaps it's been a minute seen you've seen her and you two can't stop gabbing. While she's tending to your hair, you commiserate about family drama, pontificate about Hollywood gossip, vent about the chick at work. The entire salon is buzzing with the sound of ladies laughing, dryers whirring, and perhaps even gospel music or old-school R&B playing overhead.
And then it happens.
The bell on the front door chimes. The door opens. In walks a guy. A black guy. Maybe he's an attractive black guy (you're single -- you take note.) And maybe he's not (you're single, times are hard -- you still take note.) He is dressed more like Denzel Washington's character from Training Day rather than his character in Mo' Better Blues. A hushed silence washes over the salon as though you're playing a reverse version of The Wave at a sports arena.
You forget what you were about to say regarding the latest celebrity divorce, which is strange because you had a well thought out argument about what was really going on in that marriage that you were itching to get off your chest. Instead, you wonder where your purse is. Ah, there. Below your apron. You wind the purse strap around your wrist. While you're at it, you clutch tighter to the $300 worth of the finest Indian Remy you could find. Perhaps you wonder if mace really is illegal in your state. Eyes dart around the shop as if asking: Who is he looking for? Is this you, boo? Is he yours? Oh, Lord, let him be yours.
You are a woman who has experienced more drama than is fair. The last thing you need is to get robbed. You watch him as his eyes shift around the room. It's one thing if a woman wears her resting bitchy face but when a black guy wearing saggy jeans, a sleeveless T, and a silky wave cap walks into a salon wearing one, hearts tend to skip a beat for all the wrong reasons.
He sees his goal. He strolls to the back of the salon. Twelve pairs of eyes follow him to his destination. And then you hear it. It is a woman's voice but it might as well be the sound of an angel's harp.
"Hey, boy, what you doing around here?"
Family. A relative. Of course! A relative of someone in the shop who'd just dropped by to say whatsup.
Now how foolish do you feel? What did you think was about to happen? Can't a black man walk in the beauty shop without causing panic to the masses?
You act as though nothing was amiss, return your attention to your stylist and ask, "What was I saying? Oh yeah, that divorce. Girl, I saw it coming a mile away. Let me tell you how I knew..."
Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm a little too possessive. A little too clingy with my own hair. I sat in my stylist's chair and watched as she put the finishing touches on my weave. It was a thing of beauty. Fourteen inches of Virgin Indian Remy that was so silky smooth I secretly wished I could swath my entire body in it and wear it like a fur coat. But that would be weird.
I watched as Lisa (not her real name) flat ironed my new hair straight, meticulously ensuring that every strand was sufficiently seared at a thousand degrees.
"I love messy hair," I said, by way of warning, although she knew me well by now.
I love hair that is perfect," she replied. "Every single strand laying exactly where it should be."
Perfection is subjective, though, right? Much like beauty is in the eye of the beholder? I didn't argue. I'd been with Lisa long enough to know how this tale would end.
"I'd like my hair to be curled lightly, so that the curls will fall."
"Your curls shouldn't fall," she replied. "I'll do them tight so they last a few days."
I bit my lip. I didn't want them tight. And if I stated what I wanted, then what was there left to talk about?
When Lisa was done flat ironing my hair, she began to add curls. I watched in awe as Lisa made sure that each curl lay just so. Part of the reason for my awe was that I didn't care. Had I not made clear that I loved messy hair? Pretty sure half of Farrah Fawcett's fame had everything to do with her perfectly un-perfected hair.
I touched a curl.
"Stop it," she snapped. "It's not set."
WTF? It's my hair. My curl. We were clearly having ownership issues.
It seemed as though Lisa spent as much time tweaking as she did styling. When she was all done, my hair looked pretty damned good. It was just missing one thing.
I shook my head from side to side like a woman trying to dislodge a rabid cat clinging to her hair.
"Why would you do that?" Lisa asked, not at all amused.
I smiled. "I needed to get it the way I like it. Now," I said staring back at my reflection with satisfaction because every hair was exactly where it should be: not in its place. "It really is perfect. Thank you, Lisa."
That's what I said to myself the last time I sat in a hair braider's chair. No mas. I love braids in all their various iterations: box braids, kinky braids, Senegalese braids. Love. Love. Love! What I don't love is sitting on my behind for six to eight hours to achieve the look. When I sit in the chair with all my gear (iPhone that serves as my entertainment, bottled water, and even a sandwich or fruit for lunch) I always wonder what else could I be doing with my life?
Okay, fine. The top two can be achieved sitting in the stylist's chair. Still, I'm an antsy, on-the-go kind of girl. The days of me listening to braiders argue amongst themselves in a foreign language or listening to a child cry for hours on end are in my rearview mirror. Does this mean I'll abandon braids? Au contraire!
I have stumbled upon crochet braids. Pre-twisted hair that looks good enough to satisfy my occasional need to feel like an exotic islander has changed my life. The best part is that I can do them myself. I can wash, condition, dry, and install in three hours max. All while I'm being productive... watching a Lifetime Movie.