Sunday, March 31, 2013

Denise

  Denise walked in to the salon on a Tuesday night.  She was medium height with short wavy red hair and olive skin. Her hair color was slightly off.   “No one knows how to fucking cut hair.”  Oh shit.  She was my worst nightmare: a former hairdresser.   Our stylist/customer relationship began. 
Denise did her own color (why it was a little off) I did fix it for her once under her direction of course.  I liked her.  Denise reminded me of myself in some ways.   She said what she meant and meant what she said. Like me.  We got along great, she was never afraid to tell me anything.  “You really scalped me last time.”  “This time, not so short okay??”  Like I said no fear.  
She had two grown children and four grandchildren.  Denise was very close to her sister I met her once when she came to get her hair cut.  Every six weeks like a clock Denise was in my chair.  There was always an underlying stress in her brown eyes, a sadness that lay under the surface.   I didn’t ask.   I figured when she was ready she would tell me.   Or not, which was fine too.
Denise ran a restaurant with her husband.  I’ve had several customers in the restaurant business and they all tell me how stressful it is.  Then Denise started talking about her daughter, Carrie.  Carrie was a drug addict and lived with her drug dealer/addict boyfriend.   Looking at this woman always seemed to have it all together you would never think she had a druggie daughter.  How could this hard working business owner have a kid on drugs??  Her son was a normal well-adjusted guy with a wife and kid.   I listened and asked the obvious questions.  Denise had heard it all before but I was trying to help.  She had already given her a job (she couldn’t handle work).  Tried to get her help in and out of rehab, and her daughter had 3 children from 3 different fathers all who wanted nothing to do with Carrie.  Denise and her sister took care of the children. How does a fucking drug addict have not one but 3 kids when there are perfectly healthy people who can’t is a subject for another blog. But what the fuck!?
Time passed and Denise took a trip to Alaska to visit her nephew.   She had an amazing time, but she had some back pain. “I must have overdone it” she said, the pain persisted so Denise went to the doctor.  I could tell she was a little nervous the doctor had run some tests and she was waiting for results.  I had a bad feeling.  When Denise came back she told me she had pancreatic cancer that had already spread to her liver.  She was starting chemo immediately.   When Denise came back six weeks later she was about 30 pounds lighter.  Her hair once thick was now one third of its thickness.  She decided not to make another appointment since she was losing her hair, I agreed.  She talked about her treatment, the fact that she had to close the restaurant.  If not for insurance she said they would have lost everything.  The treatment was so expensive.  Denise said she would call depending on how her hair was doing.  I will never forget what Denise said to me when she left. 
“This is really fucked up.”  That was the last time I ever saw her.
In March of that next year I was thinking about Denise I punched her name in to the computer and her obituary came up. She was diagnosed in October and died in March of the next year.  Almost one year to the date that my own mother had passed.  I just sat and cried. This lady worked her ass off raised kids started a business and practically raised her grandchildren to die horribly at the age of 56.
In this business we are taught not to get too close to people.  I wish I could be a colder person.   I think of Denise from time to time, especially in March.  I think of her daughter, who in my opinion aided in her mother’s death.  Is she still a druggie? Is she even alive??  What about her children, who takes care of them now?  I wonder if Denise would still be alive if she only had her son. 
R.I.P Denise K.   A real nice lady.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

The Greatest Salon Ever!

When I first started doing hair I worked in Manhattan.  Frederic Fekkai Beaute de Provence. It was in the Channel building at the time.  The address was 15 East 57th street, between 5th and Madison. It was amazing and to this day it is still greatest salon I have ever worked in.  The salon was seven floors. T11 was the employee lockers and lunch room. T1 was reception T2, 3 and 4 was color and cutting and T5 was the spa. The entire salon had marble floors and of course there were mats to protect our precious feet. In the reception area there was a beautiful water fountain.  Was there drama and politics?? Of course there was drama, all those stylists and colorists?? Please. 
When I was in beauty school a bunch of us went to New York on a salon tour. We visited Fekkai, John Sahag and a few others. The moment I walked in to Frederic Fekkai I knew I wanted to work there. It was beautiful and had a reputation for having a tough training program. I was in. I applied a few months later and met with the head colorist. She told me when I get my license come back and I did.
The salon was departmentalized meaning you picked a side color/chemical or cutting and styling. I chose color it has always been my first love…next to up do’s that is. Each assistant spent 3 to 4 months with a different colorist everyone had a different way of working so you learned little tricks from everyone. It was brilliant!! Being a color assistant was like being an executive secretary. Seat the clients mix color shampoo and constantly check the books. You had to make sure your colorist had their formula cards lined up the night before. And when Countess Von so and so called because she just flew in and had to have her color done, you found time where time didn’t exist to fit her in. Not kidding. We didn’t have to worry about folding towels because we had maids to take care of that for us. Tuesday night was class night; models were there for us to work on with a slightly mean French colorist breathing down your neck. I learned so much working there. I will never forget it.
They believed in hair and beauty and it was more than that. It was about style. All the stylists wore dress pants and shirts, the colorists black pants and white tops. That was important looking the part. And yes those French men were kind of rude. Once working with “Bill” one of his customers wouldn’t stop turning her head as he was trying to color her. Without warning he grabbed her head and just turned it, as if it were in slow motion. She stared at him wide eyed and he just looked at her as if to say “WHAT?!”  She didn’t move her head again.  
I ended up leaving because I was commuting 4 hours (yes four) a day to work and after three years it just became too  much. I often reminisce about working there. Hairstyling is truly an art, and at Frederic Fekkai they really believed that.