Hair Beyond Dead Cells

I have a lot of dumb tattoos, I've made a lot of questionable makeup decisions, and I pierced my own nose in my high school bathroom at 17. So when we talk about "body art", I feel like I'm more of an abstract piece people see in the MoMA and wince at. Like, is it high quality? No. Can you compare it to the Mona Lisa? Probably not. I can get away with it, though, because art is subjective, and hey I'll drink to that.

But one thing in my body art arena that is high quality, that is iconic, that does put the Mona Lisa to shame? My hair.

Maybe that's cocky to say for someone who does hair as a career but contrary to popular belief, I haven't been doing hair since I exited the womb. In fact, I made a lot of dumb hair mistakes, probably worse than most people considering I had to literally shave off all my hair at one point due to my lack of understanding around basic chemistry. And again, at the risk of being cocky, I think absolutely demolishing my hair has made me a better stylist.

Before I decided to pursue hairdressing and cosmetology, I shockingly went to real college! Well, actually I went to film school which is borderlining on actual higher education in the first place, but I digress. When I first started, I had a healthy lob with some beautiful bangs and a shiny new coat of color. That July was probably one of the last times I got my hair done in a salon by another person, and upon arrival to film school and seeing everyone's artisanal haircuts, I absolutely ruined that $150 cut and color in less than 2 weeks.

As an artist there's this internal monologue that (especially when you're first starting out) that you have to look like an artist. The other artists around me had blue buzzcuts, shaved panels on the sides of their heads, rainbow curls, mullets, mermaid hair, you name it. I'd go into Brooklyn and feel like a tourist or worse, a trust fund baby. I felt so normal, and I felt like my films and screenplays sucked. I was an underdeveloped artist and very aware of that fact, so I soon became committed "looking like an artist". I also became addicted to using 40 volume bleach on my hair every 3 weeks so I *actually* looked like someone who needed to maybe talk to a therapist.

While some colors worked great for me (purple, teal, black, red), others were a definite cry for help (orange, green, pink). People asked me all the time if I was okay, if I needed recommendations, which in hindsight makes sense. At one point I had a chemical burn on the tops of my ears so I can see how that may have been a red flag for a few people. But in all honesty, I began to view my hair as my own little performance art piece. People celebrated me with my cute little French inspired brown bob -- I was put together and classic. My various DIY mullets were often met with mixed reviews, as one might expect.

In hair school, we learn about the chemistry and anatomy of hair. Hair as it sits on your scalp right now, is dead. That's why it doesn't hurt to cut it or blast it open with various chemicals. We're taught what happens if you leave on a perm too long, how to determine the integrity of hair, how to make fingerwaves and roller sets last. We learn about geometry and architecture. What angle we have to hold hair to give a layered effect, how to measure exactly how much to take off, how to cut the perfect bang section. We aren't taught how it feels to wear a haircut. How it feels to change your hair color. Your identity. To be perceived by others.

And that's not a dig at hair school or hair educators. That's not something you can be taught. That's something you have to experience. It's not something you can hold in your hand or read from a textbook, it's a feeling. It's how your boss talks to you, how the stranger on the bus looks at you when you sit down next to them, it's how many people super like you on Tinder, it's how many comments you get on your new Facebook profile pic.

It's a million little experiences, a million new emotions from every person who sees that hair, not just the wearer. That is the definition of art.

When I see a Jean-Luc Godard film, I feel profoundly bored. But look at all the film historians who have written books upon books about the beauty of Godard's work. However, when I see The Wounded Deer by Frida Kahlo, I'm always brought to tears. For over 8 years, every time I see that painting I feel a new emotion. Obviously, not every person on Earth feels that way about that particular work, but I do. That's the hardest part of art. As a hairdresser, that's the biggest challenge.

How do I make art that moves my client, and the people most important to them? How do I make art for my client that won't be cut off or colored over after a few weeks by another stylist?

Because of masks, hair is the first thing we notice on a person. (It used to be teeth apparently, and thank god for masks yknow, because I have a lot of issues with my teeth. My hair I can always change and adjust, but teeth are a little more pricey.) Every client we have, now more than ever, is quite literally a walking installation of our art. Sure, our name and artist statement isn't attached to their back when they go to the coffee shop. But our client knows our name, the people who love your work will ask them and learn your name.

Next time you see a stylist on Instagram on Pinterest and find yourself wondering, "How on God's green Earth are they accomplishing that?" and then subsequently hating yourself and thinking about a new career path, maybe don't do that. Instead, ask yourself how you can transform your balayage and 1.5 inch trim into a work of art. Sure, not a super easy task. I mean, it's a bi-monthly trim. But treat your client's hair like a blessing, privilege, and a canvas. In time, those feelings drop into place.

Treat your scalp like a canvas, too. Like an expensive luxury Belgian linen canvas, and treat your haircolor like that $185 tube of cobalt blue oil paint. Wash your color brushes like it's a holy ritual, baptizing them with Dawn soap and Barbicide and treating your shears like they were gifted by Da Vinci personally.

Hair is the most beautiful thing. It's malleable in ways no other body part is. Everytime I cut my hair I say thank you to the strands that had to go, Marie Kondo-style. They served me well, they served my look and era but now it's time to move on to something new. Treat the hair that's getting you towards that new look like an esteemed guest, like royalty that could legally behead you with no repercussions if they wanted to.

Treat it like an experiment, like a feeling, like 3rd great art class using watercolors for the first time. Treat every new style you create like your magnum opus, treat your hair like a clay sculpture that never truly dries. Treat it all like a funeral, a wedding, and a birth managed to happen in the span of a 4 hour appointment because essentially, it did.