"How did the maintenance cut go today?" my husband wanted to know. He was barely awake at 6 on a Friday evening, trying to recover from the flight he'd taken in at noon. I did not think he would remember. "You know something, your hair is probably better maintained than our lawn." It was true. The weather and negligence always played havoc with our front yard every summer. This year was no exception. "The haircut was okay." I didn't want to say more. "It makes sense. You get what you pay for," he rambled on. "A haircut with Pierre costs us five times more than what we pay Raphael to mow our lawn every other Friday." The first time I had a haircut at Coiffure Du Monde about a month ago, which is sooner than the last time our lawn was mowed, I thought I'd really hit the jackpot. Good doctors, car mechanics and hairdressers are difficult to find in a new city. My search for a reliable hairdresser in Houston had been on for almost three years. I had landed up at Coiffure during lunch on a Friday. My colleagues had decided to eat at Nick's pizzeria in the same strip mall. I noticed a salon with an alluring name and strolled in just to see what it was like. It was the kind of place that transforms you from an ordinary woman into a perfect Parisian model in a day. As soon as I walked in I knew I couldn't leave. The delicate fragrance of herbal shampoos and conditioners was irresistible. Besides, I figured that for the price they were charging, they must hire only the best. They couldn't possibly stay in business otherwise. Within minutes, I'd made up my mind. There is nothing like spontaneity and a little risk to spur me on. Pierre must have been part of destiny. Pierre Rocher, that is the hairdresser who was free during lunch that fateful Friday. I took one look at him and knew he would be good. He wore that traditional black attire that distinguishes a lofty artist from the common man. The black cap was worn slightly sideways and he spoke accented English. The signs of a creative genius were all there. Pierre's charm and flamboyance put me at ease. I told him I was on my lunch break. So he promised to have me out in no time. I changed into a black robe. Pierre and a glass of red wine were waiting for me. "Let's see what we can do for you today," he started showing me various books. We decided on a short crop that would be easy to handle during summer. "Will it turn out to be something like that picture on the wall?" I asked. "That second picture out there?" he pointed to a series of black-and-white photos hanging high on the semicircular wall. "That cut I can give you if you want, no problem, but it's from the 80s... Lady, tell me what profession are you in?" "Computers," I said wondering how it wasn't obvious. "People tell me it's written on my face." "I knew it! Okay, you know how you can have outdated computer models and new models?" he spoke with the confidence of a Nobel laureate. "Yes." "Well, its the same with haircuts, you can have an outdated one or a modern, chic one. It's your choice." "Oh no," I panicked. "I don't want to look archaic!" "Now what we're going to do here is give you something that has panache, not just a haircut, okay? Something that has spunk and vitality and panache!" Pierre comforted me when he saw the frown on my face as my thick black hair fell off bit by bit. "Well, I trust you," I tried to assure him, my voice betraying my words. "You know, I trained at Vidal," he told me without being asked. I made a mental note of it. With adept dexterity, Pierre chopped off most of my hair before I even knew it. I hoped this was going to be worth the $90 it cost. Soon Pierre ran his fingers through what little hair I had left. "See, this is a completely new design, it has panache, not like what you had before," he said. "Now you'll be a whole new person." I imagined myself with a renewed sense of self-confidence and a fresh bounce in my step. I was certainly ready for a change! Pierre was definitely going to receive a good tip. He then told me that my hair would grow fast; so even if I didn't like my new cut, it would grow out real soon. "How did you know that?" I was impressed. "After you've been working with hair for as long as I have, you just know. This hair is the most beautiful hair I've ever seen, you can do whatever you want with it!" My respect for Pierre was growing quickly. After a three-year search, I'd finally found the perfect hairdresser -- creative, practical, and an interesting conversationalist! "In two, maybe three weeks, you can come in for a free maintenance cut," Pierre added, making my day. "We do that for our customers, it will buy you a week or two extra." I was thrilled at the prospect and immediately calculated that instead of three weeks, I'd stretch it and come back after four to get my money's worth. That way, I could keep going for another four. "Just give me a call and fix an appointment!" he added. This meant that each haircut would only cost $45. That wasn't bad at all. Even your run-of-the-mill place in the mall charged you more than that. I looked at myself in the mirror and loved what he had done. My new cut looked like one of the photos we'd seen earlier in his books, chic but manageable. I tipped him a whopping $10, which is what my husband pays for two haircuts at the place he frequents. Everybody in the salon said I'd been transformed in a Cinderella-like manner and that Pierre's magical hands had been successful once more. Just before leaving, I held out my arm to shake hands and thank him. Pierre planted a kiss on it. I guess that too was included in the $90, part of the Cinderella transformation package. Everybody just loved my new look. For a week I floated on a cloud of genuine compliments. I told Amrita, a close friend, who had been wavering about cutting her silky waist-length hair to go ahead. I lectured her on the worth of increased self-confidence and how the free maintenance cut made it all worthwhile. For three weeks I luxuriated in the ease of a five-minute wash and blow-dry cycle. Then I started thinking about when I'd schedule my maintenance cut. At the end of the third week, I called to get an appointment, but the only slot available on a Saturday was not convenient. "Do you have anything available at lunchtime on Friday?" I asked the lady who answered the phone. "As a matter of fact we do. Shampoo, cut and blow-dry for Friday 11:30. I have you down." "Maintenance cut, right?" "Yes, I have you down," she assured. Thus was it that I found myself driving to Coiffure once again, exactly four weeks after my first visit, looking forward to my free trim, a glass of wine and some amusing anecdotes from Pierre. He greeted me at the entrance, but not with the same flamboyance as before. I wondered if he was upset or just having a bad day. "See how much my hair has grown? I thought it was high time I came in for my maintenance cut." "I was wondering why you didn't come in earlier," he said very curtly. He seemed distant and aloof. I told him I'd taken the afternoon off to run some errands. There was no need to rush anything. After I sat down, we talked about a long-term plan for my hair. While we were still planning, someone placed a large glass of iced water in front of me. "I don't want to come in more than once every six weeks," I explained. We decided on something even shorter this time so that I could go for longer between haircuts. And Pierre started. Somewhere along the way, I was hit by an uncomfortable thought. I wasn't sure if it was something he said or did, or a premonition, or just my own inner sense of impending disaster. My face showed it. Pierre asked what was wrong. Why did I looked so anxious? He talked once more about panache and couture and Vidal and the magical power of my lustrous hair. I tried not to let my mind wander in strange directions but focus on what Pierre was saying. Somewhere in the middle of the haircut -- I was so upset I don't remember when -- he did the beer buddy routine again by slapping me on the shoulder. "So friend, you didn't come in for your trim, huh!" My worst fear had been confirmed. I was too embarrassed to express concern. Should I ask him what he meant? Should I just ignore him? I had to stay calm and try to act natural, like someone who frequents expensive salons. He repeated himself several times. "You should really take advantage of the free trim, it will buy you a few more days." Then he gave me a stern look as if admonishing a little child. "This time you make sure you come in for your free trim after 10 days or so, okay?" We were done in just 30 minutes, though I'd told him there was no hurry. I was seething but told myself not to show it. After the haircut, I walked serenely to the front desk, head held high. I knew what to expect but still held on to the hope that I might have been imagining things. "Ninety dollars, please," said the girl at the front desk, handing me a piece of paper, her bright red lips breaking out into an innocent smile. Neeta Patwardhan is looking for a hairdresser whose name isn't Pierre. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary
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