Running Hair and There

This past Thursday, I trotted out for a quick run (total mileage somewhere between 4 and 4.5).

With an ulterior motive.

Having moved to Cambridge recently, and having already decided that the hike to Andover for a definitively overpriced coif was bordering on ridiculous, I was faced with a momentous decision--a new salon. It needed to be many things--a salon where the following requirements were meet (Ladies, I know you'll agree):

1. The stylist to cut my hair must have her (or his) own, at least somewhat dashing cut. (And no strange highlighting.)
2. The prices must be reasonable--we've all been there--the trim for $65...
3. It needed to be walking distance from my house. (If possible, at least!)
4. The stylist need to be understanding, and perhaps somewhat visionary, as she/he was to be faced with an Amazon blond/brunette with wildly overgrown hair and no sense of what to do with it. Possession of pruning shears perhaps a plus.

And free beverages and/or fruit/cookies would be a definite bonus.

Thus I set out in my tired Nike Motos, trotting up and down Mass Ave, in search of a salon.

The first I ran into, out of breath, sweaty, and my irascible mop covered with the trusted, if faded, Red Sox cap, was Novita Salon. A woman with nicely arranged blond hair (layered, and full-bodies, but not big, as humidity is known to make my own) looked at me in slight confusion, until I panted " I just moved to the neighborhood..." She quickly sized up the situation, and announced, "I would LOVE to cut your hair. Here's my card." Good woman.

Card in trusty inside running shorts pocket, I continued on down the street. The next salon I found was entitled simply "M". Immediately upon entering, I wondered if I had fallen into a special kind of hell--the kind reserved for sorority girls and women who'd at one time or another made fun of another woman's haircut. Several older women with short, spiked haircuts stood inside, along with one shorter man in a very tight, sleeveless red t-shirt--I assume to be the obligatory salon 'mo. The ladies were, however, very nice, and dug a card from a dusty box below the counter. As I left, I noticed a giant sparkling fairy in the corner of the window.

A few doors down, I stumbled into Floyd's Barbershop. I knew by the blunt, dyed black bangs and messy bun of the first stylist I saw (is that a studded bracelet?) that I had officially ventured too close to Harvard Square. I snatched a card, and scurried out.

Acknowledging that any salons further from home would likely be too hip for this jive cat, I turned around to check the other side of the street. Sadly, only one salon on that side--Judy Jetson hair. I can't say that I took in too much of this salon. After shoving my way past the heavy castle dungeon style door (lift with the legs, Helga!), I was too tired to do more than glance around.


The next day, I made the call--and at 3:45 p.m. yesterday, I sauntered back home with my snazzy new 'do--courtesy of the fabulous Susan at Novita. Here is a photo of the full effect upon immediately waking up this morning. Be aware that it may not be entirely accurate, as I did go to sleep with it wet.