I thought I could never love anyone else the way I did him. What we had was a deep trust, a special, barely spoken connection based upon implicit respect and mutual esteem. WIth a tiny gesture, a flick of the wrist, the most subtle of pleading or pleased looks from me, he grasped my intentions and proceeded accordingly. Until he stepped onto the scene, no other man had ever given me exactly what I yearned for, just what I needed in just the right spot, every time. He was dead sexy. He was devilishgly funny. He was smart and stylish and had the most wonderful smile I’ve ever seen.
Oh, Adrian! You were the best stylist I’ve ever had!
Beneath Adrian’s competent fingers my hair took a new shape that made me feel bouncier, freer, and more like me than had the heavy brown ringlets with which I’d entered the salon that eve. Sadly, we met only twice before he abandoned me for his homeland in the South, but I’ll remember him forever as the man who gave me the best haircut of my life.
When first I met Adrian I was dubious. Clad in a slim man-cardigan, fresh black Converse, and a pair of black skinny jeans that had he been a straight man would have had me severely nervous for the well-being of his little swimmers, he strode toward me from the back of La Pelu in Chueca. His dark eyes matched his epic black mohawk and the large gauges that weighted his lobes; the sheer magnitude and volume of the piercings that studded all parts of his face and Dios-only-knows-where-else scared the living tits off of me–that is, until he smiled. His was the most transformative, beneficent, countenance-changing smile I’ve ever witnessed. He beamed at me, fearlessly stuck out his hand and introduced himself in a warm, dulcet voice that carried with it at least fourscore exclamation points. I relaxed, told him I was Caitlin, and that I needed a haircut that would make me feel good. He laughed charmingly and told me he’d fix me up right. And he did–twice, for the small fee of 50 euros. I left La Pelu that day feeling like a changed woman–because I was. Nobody’d ever done me like him.
Oh, Adrian! You were the only one who’s ever given me a haircut with which I am truly, deeply, almost sensually satisfied! Why ever did you go?
Of course, after he left me I was quite sad, but saw others. The first was a terrifying woman named Monica who possessed a thick, jungle-style rope of blue-dyed hair that she wore tossed over her left shoulder. This should have tipped me off from the beginning. The next was a sweet, gorgeous girl named Conchi who sported cool clothes and nerdy adult braces. I liked her a lot, even wanted to be her friend, but the fact remained that she cut my hair too short. Then there was the American named Sandro, my latest in a series of unsatisfying haircuts. They all tried, but could not deliver the funky, angled bob I remembered blooming beneath Adrian’s fingers. No one has even come close to doing what he did for me.
There is a new man in my life and his name is Daniel. I slid into his chair on Wednesday during my lunch, dubious again but for entirely different reasons. The place in which I found Daniel was not the ritziest of salons, nor was it the cleanest. But within an hour of comfortable chit chat about the Iberian Peninsula (he’s lucky enough to have some Portuguese heritage and the relatives to visit to prove it), fashion, and why open-toed leather high-heeled booties are unacceptable in every and all circumstances , I’d relaxed and he’d crafted me a haircut that is an acceptable analogue to the work of the famed Adrian. While my new hair is not quite as sassy nor as high-style funktastic as the ‘do homemade by the unparalleled Adrian, it has a the sass, the swing, and the sweet layered backside (oh yeah!) to satisfy me. Plus, he called me sweetie, plied me with Reese’s Peanut Butter cups and his card, and told me if I needed any adjustments I could walk over during lunch–any time–and he’d do me up how I wanted.
Now that’s what I call a good man. 🙂