Is The Hair Stylist The New Best Friend?
Health Magazine, April 2007

I’ve got this issue. I call it My Ten Pound Problem. I’ve had it since I gave birth to my second child. That child is in college now, and I’m still not sure what, exactly, the problem is. But I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities.

Possibility #1: I’m ten pounds overweight. For the sake of my health as well as my appearance, I’d be better off losing those pounds.

Possibility #2: My weight is fine. But despite my feminist consciousness and my hard-earned wisdom, somehow–too many hours spent flipping through fashion magazines? Too many family photos taken of me beside my Size Zero supermodel niece? Subliminal tapes placed under my pillow while I was sleeping? –I’ve swallowed the American ideal of what a five-foot, six-inch woman should weigh–hook, line, and sink-her.

Possibility #3: If I lose ten pounds I’ll look like my Size Zero niece, earn as much money writing as she does modeling, be forced to hire an assistant to manage the flood of irresistible invitations that come my way, and be happier than I’d ever imagined.

Tip: if you’re betting, I’d go with Number Two.

Maybe it’s because the rest of my life is going so well–aforementioned son and his older brother thriving; marriage joyful; career blooming; body (yes, I admit it) healthy. But recently my Ten Pound Problem has been rearing its ugly head (and thighs, and belly, and butt). Crying out to be solved. But how? I can’t talk about my T.P.P. with my spouse or friends. For some reason every time I mention my weight, they just roll their eyes at me.

This morning I was drinking my coffee (two tablespoons of Half ‘n Half, forty-two calories), flipping through the New York Times. I saw a story called "A Shoulder to Cry on (Highlights Included)." "The hairstylist is the new B.F.," it proclaimed. "Unlike other friends, [hairstylists] can make some of the pain go away by making the friend-client look fabulous…And unlike a therapist, the hairdresser has no problem telling it like it is."

A thought took root in my un-highlighted head. Maybe I should bring my T.P.P. to a hairdresser who could make some of the pain go away, while telling it like it is. My own haircutter wouldn’t do. Dave* and I have been in a rut, conversationally and stylistically, for more years than I cared to admit. What I needed was a new hairdresser/B.F.

I Googled "haircutter, curly hair, San Francisco, good listener" and found Bix*, the top stylist at Inflation, the hippest salon in town. "This man is an artist, a great listener, and MY HAIR GOD," one satisfied curly-head wrote. "You don’t know how lucky you are," the Inflation receptionist informed me when I called. "Bix just had a cancellation. That never happens."

When Bix’s advice didn’t quite cut it (see "The Haircutter," below), I didn’t give up on my search. I decided to go for broke (literally, as it turned out) in my search for a new B.F.. So I made appointments with some other "experts" whose jobs come with front-row tickets to the human drama: a manicurist, an esthetician, a personal trainer, an acupuncturist. For comparison’s sake, I also scheduled a session with someone who’s actually trained to dispense advice: Ruth, the therapist I’d seen during a rough moment–okay, a rough decade–fifteen years ago.

I know what you’re thinking. But please: Don’t envy me for having had more attention lavished upon my body, mind, and T.P.P. in two weeks than most people experience in two years. Think of me as having made the supreme sacrifice of seeking help for an issue that all too many of us share (you out there with the T.P.P.–you know who you are), so you won’t have to.

In the interest of the common good, I took notes as I was snipped at and worked out, stuck and stroked, comparing and contrasting the balance of pain versus gain, inner versus outer beauty achieved by the ministrations of each practitioner. Read on to learn which advice and services did me the most good, which did me no good at all, and which sent me to bed for a week.

 

THE HAIRCUTTER

Bix*, stylist at Inflation* Salon, San Francisco.

The price:

Haircut $100

Tip $25

Inflation’s secret-formula curl gel $25

TOTAL: $150

The hidden cost:

Six haircuts per year @$125 $750

The promise:

"I’m going to make you look so hot, you won’t worry about your weight any more."

The advice:

• "Have you tried exercising more and eating less?"

I exercise every day. And I eat one meal a day.

• "Date a black guy. Black guys like women with a little meat on their bones."

I’ll take it under advisement. But I’m not sure my girlfriend will approve.

• "You look great. You don’t need to lose weight."

(Preening in the mirror.) I bet you say that to all your clients.

"Most of my women clients complain about their weight. I try to be honest. But I also try really hard to find the beauty in each of them."

(Preening stops abruptly.) Oh.

The results, quickly followed by:

I’m walking on air as I leave the salon; my curls are bouncier, and so is my step. Men on the street check me out approvingly; a bus driver smiles, the guy selling roses hands one to me. When I catch my reflection in the plate-glass windows, all I see is my glowing face, flatteringly framed by my beautiful new ‘do.

Then I wash my hair and my fabulous ‘do becomes a hideous don’t. Two weeks later I’m back in Bix’s chair, feeling frizzed-out, frumpy, and foolish. "You look like you’ve lost weight," Bix greets me with his charming grin. But his smoke-and-mirror-flattery won’t do it for me this time. "Just fix it," I tell him through clenched teeth.

Bix snips and fluffs, coats my curls with yet another secret-formula goo. "It looks awful," I say despairingly. Bix meets my gaze in the mirror with something akin to pity. "What you really want," he says, "I can’t give you." At least, I think, he finally told me the truth.

 

THE ACUPUNCTURIST

David*, acupuncturist, The Golden Sore Spa*, Oakland

The price:

80-minute acupuncture treatment $185

The hidden cost:

Two days of missed work and ten days of pain resulting from a vigorous pummeling by David’s jade balls (see below).

The advice:

• "There’s an epidemic of sub-clinical hypothyroidism among women in the U.S. right now. Maybe you should think about getting tested."

Huh?

• "If you compare yourself to everyone else, it’s a recipe for unhappiness. There’s always going to be someone richer, thinner, more beautiful than you."

Gulp.

• "Maybe you’re not working out as much as you should because you’re having pain you’re not paying attention to."

I do have this chronic ache in my left hip.

"I’ve had people cancel surgeries after I give them a Chinese Jade Ball Treatment. Are you open to giving that a try?" (Shows me two green three-inch-diameter balls in black velvet case.)

Did they cancel because they got better, or because they were dead?

• Ouch! That really hurts!

"Open to the pain like a lotus flower opening to the sun."

How about you open the door of this torture chamber and let me open to the sun, poolside?

The results:

David meant well; I know he did. But I’m cursing him, from his Birkenstocks to his jade balls when I wake up the morning after feeling like I’ve been rolled over by a jade truck. Three days later, still in pain, I call him to complain. "You’re having a healing crisis," he says, sounding positively elated. "You should come in and let me work on you again."

"Maybe next week," I stall, incredulous at his unshaken, oblivious self-confidence. "I’m feeling a little too…open for another treatment right now."

 

THE FACIALIST

Crystal*, esthetician, The Shanti Spa*, San Francisco.

The price:

Ayurvedic Healing Facial $95

Tip $25

TOTAL: $120

The drill:

Crystal sits me in a rattan chair, gently places my feet in a wok full of rocks, and pours warm milk over my feet. I’m about to mention that my feet are vegan when she asks me to fill out the "Ayurvedic Nature Questionnaire: My skin feels…My energy level is…My anxiety level is…" Probing my chakras for answers is making my skin crawl, my energy level plummet, and my anxiety level rise. I decide to take an F on my Ayurvedic Final. I hand the questionnaire back, blank.

The promises:

"Craving food is a form of addiction. Ayurvedic treatments balance your elemental nature, so you won’t have those addictive cravings anymore."

"The aromas we use have a memory response. Next time you reach for the sugar, you’ll relax and remember how you felt during the treatment instead."

The advice:

• "You’re beautiful. And I think you know that."

Aw, shucks.

• "I always think I need to lose ten pounds, too."

Don’t we all. Do a lot of your clients complain about their weight?

"Pretty much all of them."

What do you tell them?

"I search deep within to find the beauty in each one of them."

Oh. That again.

The results: &: sensory pleasures, false promises

Crystal’s capable hands, moistened with herbal unguents, feel fabulous on my face. The flute music is soothing, the flickering candlelight calming, the flower essences ambrosia to inhale. Maybe if I’d been able to swallow the Ayurvedic schtick I wouldn’t have found myself swallowing Ben & Jerry’s the next day, when my "addictive cravings" struck again.

 

THE PERSONAL TRAINER

Cindi, Fitness Technician, Club Ego*, Oakland

The price:

Club Ego registration fee $75

Processing fee $20

Membership dues, one month $91

Two-hour personal training session $140

Validated parking $2

TOTAL $328

The hidden cost:

Suggested minimum for personal training: ten sessions $700.

The drill:

A half-hour tour of the Club, touting the benefits of membership, followed by a one-hour interrogation about my eating habits, followed by a half-hour "on the floor" (which is where I find myself when I try Cindi’s suggested routine at home the next day).

The promise:

"If you start giving your body the fuel it needs you might gain weight, but you’ll be happier and healthier."

The advice:

• "You’re starving yourself. You need to eat a meal or a snack every three hours."

Did you think I said I wanted to gain ten pounds?

"How often did you feed your kids when they were little?"

All the time.

"Why?"

Because they were growing. Which is what I’m hoping not to do.

• "Your workouts won’t do you any good if your nutrition doesn’t support it."

Finally: the excuse I’ve been looking for to stop working out.

• "Would you stop thinking about the ten pounds if you lost ten pounds, or would you just want to lose ten more pounds?"

Gulp.

The results:

Despite my efforts to evade Cindi’s probing questions and shrug off her outrageous suggestions (on which planet is eating more a prescription for losing weight?), I leave Club Ego wondering if she’s right. Maybe my health is more important than losing ten pounds. Maybe I will feel better if I’m not depriving myself all the time. What if I started–gasp–eating when I’m hungry? What if hunger stops being my enemy, and food becomes my new B.F.?

I’m not quite ready to find out. In the meantime, I strike a compromise. I start doing half of Cindi’s prescribed daily workout–three days a week.

 

THE MANICURIST

Ngo Phun*, nail technician, Deep Sea* Day Spa, Berkeley

The price:

Tropical Pedicure $65

Hot Oil Manicure $25

Nail-hardening treatment $10

Tip $20

TOTAL: $120

The advice:

None. Ngo Phun doesn’t speak English. Which is probably a good thing, since she (a) appears to weigh less than 90 pounds, and (b) recently arrived here from a war-torn country, and therefore might not share a 135-pound American woman’s perspective on what constitutes a problem.

The unexpected benefits:

• Being mani’ed and pedi’ed in silence gives me time to thumb through magazines looking for the new recipes I’ll need if I decide to obey Cindi and start eating–gasp–more than once a day.

• During the pedicure my feet are soaked in coconut milk, slathered with mango sugar, and coated with papaya clay. So, while I’m deciding whether to start eating six times a day, at least I know my feet are eating well.

The results:

Seeing myself through Ngo Phun’s eyes–well-fed American woman with $100 to blow on a mani/pedi–is food for thought. And it doesn’t taste all that great.

 

THE THERAPIST

Dr. Ruth Orloff*, PhD, Oakland.

The price:

Fifty-minute psychotherapy session $150

The experience:

The moment I walk into Ruth’s office I remember why this room was once my shelter from the storm. Ruth gets right down to business: no Ayurvedic mumbo-jumbo, no jade balls or false promises, no smoke–but lots of mirroring. She mentions that she’s read the books and articles I’ve published over the years; she beams as she points out the progress I’ve made. How could I ever have stopped coming here? Oh, right. I thought it might be better to get my mirroring from my actual B.F.’s. And then there’s that little matter of the $150/week.

The advice:

• "I haven’t seen you in fifteen years, and you seem to weigh about the same now as you did then."

That’s because I monitor my food intake like a prison guard.

"What do you think would happen if you didn’t?"

I’d eat nothing but the 3 B’s: Bread, Butter, and Ben & Jerry’s.

(Ruth regards me with tender skepticism.) "Do you really think that’s true?"

(I squirm in my pink velvet armchair.) Actually, no.

• "What good is it doing you, all this fighting with yourself?"

(I squirm some more.)

"Are you afraid that if you didn’t have something you were beating yourself up about, you’d actually be…" (Ruth grins at me slyly, one garden-variety neurotic to another)… "happy?"

I am happy. Except for the ten pounds.

"I rest my case."

The results:

Dr. Ruth has it all over the others. She knew me when, so I believe her when she tells me how well I’m doing now. She’s a trained, experienced professional, not a recent graduate of the latest New Age healing fad. And she’s not trying to sell me on anything, except myself.

The session with Ruth is more work than getting a Tropical Pedicure, less sensuous than an hour in Crystal’s candle palace. But I leave Ruth’s office feeling much the same way I felt when I left Bix’s chair the first time: like a successful, happy, and yes, beautiful woman who doesn’t need to be in therapy, or lose ten pounds. Only this time, even after I wash my hair, the feeling lasts.

In the weeks since my final treatment, several friends have told me that I seem more confident, happier, that I’m glowing. I don’t need to look in the mirror to realize that it’s true. Maybe it’s the cumulative effects of the primping, the pampering, the papaya pedi, even the pummeling. Maybe I finally overdosed and lost my taste for my T.P.P. Maybe devoting weeks of attention to those troublesome ten pounds made me realize what a waste it is to spend any attention on them at all. Or maybe I’ve learned Bix and Crystal’s trick, and I’m learning to see past the imperfections, real or imagined, to the beauty inside.

Whatever the reasons, I find that I eat more often now, and worry about my weight less. When I look for my next haircutter, I’ll be looking for someone who does a good job of cutting hair. I don’t need a shoulder to cry on any more. I’ve become my own B.F.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and the ridiculous.