Learning to Catwalk

By KC Cohen

I grew up in a one-hairstyle-town. In Santa Barbara, California, you’re nothing if your hair doesn’t flow down to the middle of your back in lustrous, straight, sun-kissed tresses. The messier, the stringier—the more it looks as if you’ve just emerged from the glistening sea—the better. Because of this, every girl on the street looks as if she’s auditioning for the Brook Shields role in Blue Lagoon.

I have thick, kinky hair — hair that makes me look as if I’m auditioning for the role of Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof. When I swim in the ocean, I get dreads and a washed-out dye-job. Transforming my unruly curls into the perfect beach-bunny look takes over an hour — a small price to pay for surfer-girl chic.

When I moved to Boston for college, I realized my long locks didn’t have to move with me. Boston’s diversity was baffling—long, short, flowing, choppy—I felt as if my hair was a slave who’d reached the North. Fed up with my split ends from years of blow-drying and straightening and ready to embrace my hair’s newfound freedom, I decided to cut it all off.

I soon realized that such a change required an especially talented cosmetologist. This was not a Supercuts endeavor. No, this cut would necessitate a salon where the stylists only had first names, kissed their clients’ cheeks, and said things like, “Fabu.” As a college student, I definitely could not afford a cut at a fabu-status salon. Luckily, earlier that semester I had grabbed a “Collegiate Coupon Book” from the Boston University bookstore. The coupon book offered, among other things, 25-dollar haircuts at chic Newbury Street salons. I closed my eyes, flipped through the book, and jabbed my finger into a page: Runway Salon.

“The only true European salon in Boston,” read the ad. “Located at 16 Newbury Street.”

I picked up my phone and dialed the number at the bottom of the coupon.

“Runway,” barked a deep-voiced female. The sound of hairdryers and heavy trance music seeped through the phone.

I told her I wanted to make an appointment for the following week, trying to sound as casual and cool as possible.

“Do you want a junior or senior stylist?” she asked.

“I, uh… senior, I guess.” Then, as much as I tried to stop it, out came the proof that I, in fact, was neither casual nor cool. “I have a coupon.”

I could hear the change in her voice.

“Junior stylist,” she sneered.

I gave her my name and hung up as quickly as possible.

On a humid September morning, my mangled mane and I set off for Newbury Street. When I reached 16 Newbury, I found a door leading to multiple flights of stairs.

“Runway Salon, floor 2,” read a polished, square sign.

The landing of floor two only led to a cold, unmarked, white door. Why the secrecy? Were they attempting to scare away teenage poseurs like myself, or were they just using hair products not yet legal in the United States? After lurking in the hall for far too long, I decided to swallow my intimidation.

When I opened the door I was blasted by the rave music I had heard over the phone. Stylists dressed in black ran across the room with shiny hairdryers and tossed their clients’ hair with big, sweeping motions. A colossal flat-screen TV projected images of lanky models parading down the runway in European high fashion. In 15-dollar Payless shoes and ripped jeans, I clung to the wall in hopes of camouflage.

“May I help you?” inquired the woman behind a glass counter. She had a short, black bob with harsh bangs that fell in front of her eyes and eyebrows that rivaled the Golden Arches, giving her a look of perpetual annoyance.

“I have an 11:00 appointment,” I mumbled.

“Name?” she shot back.

“KC Cohen,” I replied.

She typed quickly, entering the information into her database. Her face darkened and brows narrowed as she simply said, “Coupon.”

I took a seat in a black leather chair and waited for my assigned junior stylist. I did my best to sit up straight and hold my head of broken, washed-out hair high, but I couldn’t help feeling inferior among Boston’s hair-elite. All around me women whipped their silky manes while men with bone-structures resembling that of the European models on the huge television ruffled their newly styled hair.

“Are you KC?” asked a man who I presume was unfortunately assigned to “the girl with the coupon.” The man wore black linen and styled his hair into what appeared to be a heavily gelled mullet.

He spoke in an Eastern European accent, and although he failed to mention his name I sensed it was along the lines of Vladimir. He didn’t smile as he led me to his station.

“My hair is in really bad shape,” I began. “So I think I want to take a lot off and go for an entirely new look.”

No response from Vladimir.

“I’m thinking a severe side part,” I continued. “With lots of choppy layers in front.”

Nothing.

“I have naturally curly hair, but I straighten it almost every day. I’m from California where everyone has long hair, but I think since I’m in Boston I want mine short.” I was blabbering now. I felt like I was talking to a sack of very stylish potatoes.

Vladimir parted my hair and began chopping. Four-inch locks of wet hair gathered in piles on the polished white floor and clung to my glossy black smock. There was no turning back now. I was in Vladimir’s hands.

I closed my eyes, then immediately regretted it when I realized I was afraid to open them again. I could feel Vladimir taking large sections of my hair—snipping, and then letting the wet ends fall against my cheekbones and stick to my neck. When the hairdryer blasted in my ears, I took my fate into my hands and snuck a peak in the mirror.

My freshly cut hair fell in shiny strands across my eyes. The split ends and lifeless locks were gone, replaced by clean, bright layers. I had my new look, and it blew those California surfer-girls—with their long, bodiless hairstyles—out of the water.

Vladimir beamed at his creation. And then he spoke.

“Do you like it?”

Taken aback by Vladimir’s decision to cast aside his brick wall impression, I stammered, “Yes, I do.”

“I think this cut looks very good on you,” Vladimir continued, his words smoothly strung together. “Do you go to school in Boston?”

“I go to Boston University,” I replied, trying to conceal my surprise. “I just transferred there.”

“Do you have plans for the night?”

I explained to Vladimir that, as a college student, I always have “plans for the night.” He laughed, gave a suave smile, and tossed his mullet.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you on the town,” he said, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Can I call you?”

I thought perhaps the chemicals in the illegal hair products had impaired my brain function. Did Vladimir the Voiceless just ask for my number? Apparently, in the span of an hour, Coupon Girl had become runway-worthy. Sensing my astonishment, he added, “And my name is Nino.”

After awkwardly mumbling something about not giving my phone number out, I grabbed my bag and practically ran to the front of the salon, unable to conceal my beaming smile. I slammed my coupon down in front of me and exclaimed, “My name is KC Cohen, and I am using this coupon.”

Ignoring the black-haired woman’s raised eyebrows, my new look and I sauntered boldly out of the salon.