Hair: Failing funky

My head was turned by new salon on my street: orange Vespa parked in front, orange and high-gloss white decor, retro bossa nova groovily wafting. Pitchers of water with fresh mint and orange slices, croissants, espresso bar. Nice people, cool place. 

And hey, the name is "The Redhead" in French. Was this not meant to be?

"Brigitte", a flame-haired stylist in a sequined t-shirt, told me I should have something "un peu plus 'funky'". I believe in letting stylists do their thing; my only stipulation was to be able to dab in some product and go, no hot irons or blowouts. Though shocked by the amount of (my) hair on the floor, I walked out happy– it was a change– but almost immediately began thinking "I need to get used to it." 

Day 1: Trying to make friends

Here's that cut. I am already questioning it in this photo. At my left, out of camera range, sits a largish glass of chablis.

Yesterday, Brigitte had casually achieved a Janelle Monae poof on the long side which I could not replicate. It's hip, but looks odd with my Hermès scarf. I remove the scarf; the cut is still kind of jarring. My hair is now loaded with a wax that leaves residue on my pillow.

Day 4: Party

A few nights later, I join three girlfriends with great hair. We are all over 60. Though Francine, at far left, looks grey, her hair is actually that sixteen shades of blonde thing.

R., on my right, and I have been close friends since '82. She said nothing, which said something, know what I mean?

I ask myself when, in the last three decades, I had seen this style, and the answer is, on me in...1985. I begin to have serious reservations. Like the Dorothy Hamill wedge, should this 'do come back?

I receive this party photo and like everyone's hair but mine.


Day 5: Seeking expert advice

After studying the photo evidence, I Skype another longtime friend, the forthright Susan, and ask what she thinks. She always looks terrific in a natural, breezy way and has worked as an image consultant. 

Susan does not hesitate a second: calls it dated and dreadful. We decide the cut is like a mullet rotated 90 degrees and about as current.


Day 6: Get this thing off my head!

The next morning, I take another chance at a different nearby salon, Blush. Totally different vibe: Femmy and formal, with crystal chandeliers like an opera house's. I simply enter on a whim and beg for book the first available slot.

The stylist, Maggie, is a calm, 50ish woman who handles my curls deftly, evincing thirty years of experience. Her first words are, "Passé", and "I can fix this".

The fix is more or less my usual style, if shorter over the ears. "We are going to get more length here", Maggie says, tugging down both sides like the 'do is a pair of misbehaving Spanx.

And this costs 30% less! No fancy bevvies, but I am offered samples of masques and a pen.

Someone might prefer the funky cut. If so, I have some Pat Benetar albums for you.

What did I learn?

1. Let a stylist experiment, but realize that you may not be suited to his or her idea.

2. Funky after 50 (OK, well after) is unwise unless you're maintaining your signature look. Think Suzanne Bartsch, Suzy Menkes, Lynn Yaeger.

3. Everyone needs a friend with a good eye and absolutely no qualms about being honest.

I suspect, the "If you wore it the first time, don't wear it the second time around" aphorism goes for hairstyles as well as clothes.

I'm not sorry I took a chance; you have to, if you wonder what you'd look like with something different. But I didn't return to Brigitte for the fix; her sensibility does not correspond to mine.

How wild a departure have you taken? Did it work out?