Lynn and I have an extremely rich, long history. We joke that we have a story that Hallmark movies are made of and since one of my passions and escapes is spilling words onto paper or computer screens, I decided to write that Hallmark movie story exactly the way it has played out from the very beginning until this moment.
A few months ago I wrote an outline of seven chapters. Coincidentally, seven is our favorite number. Because life went from 60 to zero in a matter of days and I have begun illustrating our journey with words. It's a work in progress that will span over the last 22 years. I'm not sure how long it will take to complete but I knocked the intro and first chapter out in a single evening so we shall see. It's quickly become my escape and comfort in a world that seems like an extremely bad joke. It's relaxing and nostalgic, writing all of this out. I remember outfits, scents, the way the air felt on certain breezy days and exact word-for-word conversations. It's sweet what our minds hold onto as memories. It knows how to filter what's important from what's not, and what's worth holding onto from what isn't.
I'm so excited to have finally begun and to share the first bit of how everything began in a narrative way; right here, right now.
Intro.
Most would never believe this story is real or they would wonder why it hadn’t happened before now. In addition to the 22 years they’ve actually known one another, there were 15 plus years of their lives prior to that of paths crossing this way and missing that way like a Hollywood production of “Catch Me if You Can…and Hurry, Before it’s too Late.” The only thing is that “too late” is just a figure of imaginary speech. A quirky, dark and mysterious hair stylist and his tiny bubbly blonde client... They began as mall rats, one working at a salon and the other doting a white lab coat, working for a prestige cosmetic line at a department store. They grew up 13.2 miles apart in small town USA on the edge of Illinois, smack dab in the middle of corn fields, back roads and house parties, beer pong, and friends in low places. They likely attended the same high school sporting events a few times and possibly even brushed shoulders at a party here and there but never even knew it. Looking back at their years from childhood through high school, it seems so sweetly odd and insane the way they were sprinkled like two little flower seeds in the same big yet little field. Always present. Always within reach. Always right here. They didn’t officially meet until their 20’s. He was recommended to her by her co-worker and friend. He styled the hair of nearly every girl in the cosmetics department in grand fashion. It was on one very fateful warm spring day when she accidentally dyed her entire head of hair the shade of a lilac flower that their stylist/client relationship roots became a bit deeper, as he was her only trusted hope of fixing this mess. It was so dry, so bleach-blonde, and now so purple. She cried, she felt like throwing up, and she made a desperate phone call to see if he had an opening by a slim chance that day. “Sure babe! It can’t be that bad,” he replied to her voice of desperation on the other end of the phone. She loved his optimism, but he had no idea what he was about to encounter. She just silently shook her head, looking in the mirror as she shoved every single bit of hair she had under a ballcap before heading to the mall.
“I’m on my way and I’ll be there soon,” she said, and then she hopped in her little red car. “He can fix this…he can. If anyone can fix this, it’s Lynn," she said to herself, "Please, please, oh please.” He had done her hair one time before and it was beautiful. She trusted next to no one to even touch a strand of it aside from Lynn and herself and look what she did this time. He was going to shit. The knot in her stomach and the panic were almost unbearable but she held onto that one bit of hope.
Purple. She was fair complected with a golden tan in the summer. She’d been blonde since she was a babe but dabbles with Sun-In during middle school turned into battles all the way through to her adult years with brassiness and what looked like coal-black roots atop her pale strands of bleach-blonde hair. She had been box-dying her roots for years. If anyone could become pro at that it was her until this particular day when she met her match with a box labeled “Lightest Ash Blonde.” What could go wrong? She’d done this a hundred times. Violet softens brass. It would be ashy and pretty. Put it on the roots first, leave it there longest and keep it away from the ends. Foolproof. Right? Oh my god, so wrong. What had she done? She could barely run her fingers through it, much less a comb. The entire drive to the mall, she replayed the scenario over and over in her mind. She was so humiliated, and she had no idea what he would say. She wasn’t trying to cheat on him with box dye, she was just trying to save a little money because her roots grew in every two weeks. Clearly this wasn’t the way to cut corners. Lesson learned.
“Hey!” said Lynn with a smile on his face when she walked into the salon. His eyes changed expression when he saw her because he could tell she’d been crying. She couldn’t even talk so she just slowly took the hat off. She’ll never forget the look on his face as much as he tried to downplay it. He told her to sit in the chair as he looked at it and felt it. “Sherry… I’ve got to be honest. I don’t know if I can fix this without making it worse. We’re going to have to strip it entirely.” “There is no way it can get worse than this so do whatever you have to do, I swear to you I will not be mad…even if we have to cut it all off and start over. I just have to get the purple out.” “We’re not cutting it off,” he said. “Let me see what I can do.” He spent four hours on her hair that day. After a lot of literal sweat, countless smoke breaks together, some half nervous mixed with half serious conversations, some bleaching, some low-lighting, some deep conditioning and a blow-out…he turned his chair around so she could see herself in the mirror. Oh my god and holy freaking hell, how did he do this?!?! What she saw staring back at her as a reflection was the shiniest, bounciest, softest ash blonde hair that she had ever had in her entire life. She touched it and it felt like silk. It was soft. It was healthy. It was still thick. It was still long. It. Was. Fucking. Beautiful. She stood up and all she could do was hug him and say, “thank you,” what seemed like 500 times. When she left that day, she took the long walk through that mall to get to her car, literally bouncing as she went with the biggest smirk on her face. He made her feel like a supermodel every time she left him. Every. Single. Time.
This fiasco of hers was no different. The man was a genius.
From that day on she trusted no one else on the planet to touch her hair. He was her stylist. Her was her guy. He was her savior. She referred to him as the “God of Hair” and for the next few years, she followed him as any devoted and loyal client would to his next salons of choice, the last one being Modern Hair Studio. She never had to tell him what she wanted – he just knew what would look right on her. She never felt nervous about how the colors in the foils on her head would turn out. She never feared the snips he’d trim from her ends and she loved – absolutely loved – watching this man with a round brush and a blow dryer. It was hair-gasmic, if that word ever existed. His hands were so fast, and the result was incredible. She loved talking to him as a friend because he became someone she felt close to in that regard too. She loved his energy and personality. He made her laugh and he was gorgeous. She found it odd that although she always had a boyfriend, he also always had a girlfriend and she would get a little tinge of jealousy when he’d talk about them. It was silly, right? Friends…They were forever stylist and client and they were forever friends. After each appointment she always looked forward to the next.
Until one day, it was time for him to go away.