Seeing Red: A Hair-Raising Tale

by Katharine Dyson

Life was good.

I was in Las Vegas on an assignment staying at the super-lux TheHotel at Mandalay Bay. I had been scheduled for a massage at the MGM Grand Spa, and my itinerary included a bucket load of shows, dinners, even a pedicure at the newly-opened Cristophe Salon. (Just so you know, Cristophe is huge in the hair business, in great demand by his famous clients — you might remember him as the guy who cut former President Clinton’s hair in a plane no less, while the airport closed down for a couple of hours, creating a brief media blitz.)

So here I was in Las Vegas, bouncing right along, hanging in there with late nighters, on a roll with just two days to go before I was to fly to Phoenix for a six-day golf trip. Since it’s hard to play golf in New England in the winter, I was really looking forward to getting out on courses such as Grayhawk, Eagle Mountain and TPC.

But I knew I would be up against it. My game at best could be called “consistently sporadic.” Yeah, I knew I had a head problem, that I needed more confidence. What I didn’t know was that I was about to find it in a most unexpected place. It had everything to do with my hair. I had been stuck with the same hairstyle ever since I got my first car. This was about to change. I had just experienced a dreamy spa massage with honey, milk and some delicious oils. I was noodled. Next stop was to float upstairs for my scheduled pedicure at Cristophe’s. On the way out of the spa, the attendant casually mentioned, “Cristophe is looking forward to meeting you all.” I was surprised ... and excited.

Wrapped in a thick white terry cloth robe, I drifted up the marble staircase. Entering his salon, Cristophe came over to greet us with a huge smile lighting up his tanned face where just a day or two growth of beard gave him a very hip, cool look. He was tall, lanky and wore his long-sleeved black T-shirt, tight jeans, boots and a baseball cap with utter confidence. I found him totally charming, warm, genuine.

“Hummm,” I said to him. “My son tells me he has never seen me with another haircut. I keep thinking I should change, but don’t have the guts.”

Giving me a quick look-over he said, “I’ll cut it for you.”

“Really? OK ... uhh … that would be great,” I replied.

So now I’m in his chair, and he’s looking at my face, my hair. Gesturing with a black comb in his hand, he says, “I could shape it a bit — it needs shaping — or I could go more extreme.” My first instinct was hidden angst. I am not the extreme type. I like wash-and-wear hair. I’m into sports, not heavy duty maintenance. But, hey, I couldn’t simply tell him to just trim it up. He was after all … Cristophe.

So I breathed a little easier when he said, “Think I’ll go the conservative route,” as hair started flying. Then he whispered in my ear, “Don’t be nervous. I’m going more extreme,” as his scissors went clip, clip, clip fast as a hummingbird’s wings. Layers appeared. When he was finished, peering back at me from the mirror was a hair style that had morphed from local weather girl into a combination of Ally McBeal and Meg Ryan. Was that person with the short, flippy hair really me? Too late now.

Later, as the night wore on and we dove into the nightlife, I started liking the idea. I felt younger. More with it. Fresher. The next day I flew to Scottsdale for my golf trip. Reaction from my golf friends, mostly guys, was immediate. “Great haircut. Makes you look 10 years younger.” A good thing, right?

Then, throughout the week, every time I made a putt, got a birdie or hit a good drive, someone would say, “It’s the haircut. You’ve got attitude.” “What’s the bet?” I asked on the second day as our foursome of three guys and I stood on the first tee. “Got to be the haircut,” said Joe. “Yep. Ever since Vegas.” echoed Tom.

Surely something was different. I felt I could do anything. Never played better. My friends had to be right. Had to be the haircut. I’d found new confidence. Attitude. “Keep the hair,” said my friend, Ben, after I sunk a 20-footer to win the hole. That day, I shot 10 stokes under my previous two rounds. I’m keeping the haircut. FG