“I’m leaving.” 

This was more or less the opening line of what is usually a pretty innocuous back-and-forth chit chat between me and my hairdresser.  He’s a short, handsome, black-haired young guy from Sardinia, and I have always appreciated having him as the person standing behind me and painting color onto the roots of my hair. 

Getting your hair done, it’s a complete first-world luxury. I know this—but I still do not enjoy the experience of going in and paying someone to falsely set back the hands of time on my hair. It’s like the Toyota Paseo that one of my family members once sold—somebody may or may not have cracked open the odometer to suggest that there were less miles on it than what was reality. You can change the outward appearance…but the overall performance will ultimately tell a different story.

My point is that while I go in and pay too much to color my hair every six weeks, it does little more than mask the age that my body and conscious mind knows to be the case.  I’m getting old and tired.  This is the way that things go.

But I was sad to hear this news coming from my parrucchiere. It took me so many trials before I finally found him. Once I did, I felt as though I could finally feel settled in Rome. At the same time, I wasn’t all together shocked when he informed me that he would be leaving the salon. His personality and way of doing things was not exactly in line with the general air of the rest of the neighborhood where I found the shop. He doesn’t talk much—but at the same time he is super honest about what he thinks and he doesn’t put on any airs.  He also doesn’t charge me 25 euros to blow-dry and “style” my hair (this is a racket, in my humble opinion).

Sure, the rest of the folks in the salon are friendly enough, but it’s my inner Megan who perpetually feels as though she does not belong in a place like this. Folk sitting there getting hair extensions. Folks who, while getting their hair done have someone attending to their nails or arm hair in an extended effort to look magazine-cover ready. Of course on one of my first visits, someone popped down next to me to offer these same services—but my answer was pretty much, “No thank you—I would prefer to sit here and read my book about Bill Russel and Wilt Chamberlain in pace while I wait for this hair dye to work its magic”.  No bonus human engagement is neither necessary nor desired. 

Any time I have consented to having my hair “styled”, I have walked out feeling like I have put on a Halloween costume. I’m not saying that any of this is bad….it’s just not my thing. Already I feel as though I spend way too much money on my hair—it’s just something I accept doing in the name of keeping up with everyone else with jobs necessitating that they continue to swim upstream. Oh, in this case only how wonderful it would be to exist as a man and enjoy the arrival of salt and pepper color that always seems to be described as “distinguished”. Women never get that luxury. 

“This neighborhood is just too much for me,” my hairdressed me as he removed the towel from my hair. “I can’t work here anymore.”

I nodded, understanding that he didn’t need to say much without intimating a whole bunch. I understood because at this stage, I know how life goes. We humans find the parts that fit us well—and even with the parts that don’t fit us so well, we come across other beings with whom we click. But in those instances—where neither of us exactly fit—we’re likely in transit. Either one of us or both have not yet found the place that suit us best. And so there is a bit of moving on that must be endured by at least one party. This is the natural order of things. It’s the same in my office, where after a couple of years, folks always move on. Some you hate to see go…the others, you can’t boot out the door fast enough.

My hair of course will eventually run grey. It’s just a matter of time…and honestly once I finally do give up, I will welcome this shifting of colors with alacrity. Not just because I won’t force myself to frequent fancy hair salons that are filled with my perception of “beautiful people”. No, instead I will give myself over to the continuing passage into older age because I feel that I will feel more at ease with who I am. As for my Sardinian hairdresser, he will still be younger than me—and I can only hope that he too will find himself settled in somewhere that feels like a better fit for him. In a spot where there are more of his people. More who treat him well and respect his craft.   

“I was taught by my father,” he told me. I nodded while still being a bit surprised because this is the most I have heard him speak on his personal life (Italians as a general rule are pretty closed off about their personal lives). “My mother is a hairdresser,” he continued, “she has her own shop. Maybe I will go back there for a bit. I think I need to be in a place where I am not treated like a second-class citizen. Where people don’t look down on the fact that this is the trade I have chosen.”  

Privately, I felt sad that this would be my last hair appointment with him—but an even larger part felt happy for him. Easily, I am 15 years his senior, and with the additional miles I’ve got on my body, I told him that I completely understood. There is no set instruction book on how to live one’s life—and certainly, there is a future beyond one posh neighborhood and for sure it is just as worthy. No matter how long you demand your hair extensions to be. No matter what your “pedigree” is. 

Just about everywhere I have gone that is not my own house on Cape Cod, I have felt like a fish out of water. And perhaps every person feels this way once they leave their home base. I don’t know. Selfishly, I feel sad that I am losing my hairdresser because now I have to find a new solution. It’s not the end of the world. Of course it’s not. Again, I am happy that this soul has decided to move on and continue searching. It’s just that selfishly, I am older and more tired. I was happy to have had this one item in my life already figured out for the time that I am in Rome. But I know I shouldn’t be so selfish. At the end of the day I will figure out my stupid hair.

I usually run out of Schlitz pretty fast with all the acquaintances with whom I must engage with in close proximity. It’s how I am made, and it’s another reason that I feel sad to lose those who do not deplete my energy banks so quickly. But the nice thing about meeting these kinds of people is that, at the end of the day, you feel like you understand these folks just a bit better. You’ve got more empathy. So I wish him well. I hope his journey continues in a way that he finds suitable. Even if I never run into him again, like many others I will be thankful for the intersection while we make our respective runs through life.