Sex In The Suburbs (And Other Secrets From My Neighborhood Hair Stylist)

Warren Beatty and Julie Christie in the film Shampoo.
Once every couple months, more or less, I spend two hours at the beauty salon. My stylist, Amoro, brushes foul-smelling chemicals onto tiny strands of my hair and then folds each bleach-coated piece into its own, individual foil pocket.

By the time he sits me under the dryer, I have about fifty squares of silver paper sticking out of my head and I look like a cross between an electrocuted, tinseled-up Christmas tree and the Tin Man’s girlfriend.

I’ve been getting my hair highlighted for so long now that I don’t even mind the time it takes or what I look like during the process. The way I see it, what better opportunity to catch up on Brad, Angie and the twins? It’s the only time, aside from the supermarket check-out line, when I get to binge on gossip rags until I make myself sick.

The seeds of this “beauty” ritual were planted way back at the beginning of my life when what little hair I was born with, was golden blond. Unfortunately, by the time I reached my early teens, it started to cross over to a darker ash that looked suspiciously like dish-water or mousy brown. Which basically means, in the hair color continuum of blond bombshells, sexy redheads, chestnut browns and sultry blacks, your hair is no color. So you might as well just go ahead and fade into the background RIGHT NOW.

Thank God it was the 70s and “Sun In” was popular at the time. A couple quick squirts and a day at the beach or “lying out” on my parents’ front lawn, yes, slathered in baby oil (it was the 70s!) was enough to restore my locks to their original brilliance and rescue me from life as a wallflower.

But the thing is, because I’ve been enhancing the color of my hair from a very young age, at this point in my life, I’m not really sure what my natural color is. Periodically I point to my roots and wail to Amoro, its black! And he’s always like, is not black. And I’m all, you’re just saying that to make me feel better.

And to prove he isn’t, he pulls out one of those big cardboard color charts with loops of synthetic hair attached, squints closely at the stiff little locks, and shows me my shade.

Okay, so it isn’t black (not that there’s anything wrong with black). But it is the darkest hue of ash blond. Which means if you go one shade over. Yes, just one. You’re in the brown category. Of the mousy variety.

A few months ago I got it into my head that perhaps my natural hair color wasn’t so horribly boring after all. Maybe, in these hard economic times, I should embrace a color that didn’t need such expensive upkeep. And after all, I was now a fully-formed adult. I was more than my hair color, right?

Amoro tried to talk me out of it but I was adamant. So against his better judgment, he pulled the big gun from his stylist’s holster. The highlighting cap. With what looked like a crochet needle, he pulled big chunks of my hair through the cap’s holes then drenched them with my darker, natural color.

When he finished I looked in the mirror. Staring back at me was a woman I barely recognized. A bad version of Sarah Jessica Parker, post Sex In The City. The hair shade she sported should have been called No Sex In the City (or, in this case, the suburbs). It was so mousy and dish-watery, she was all but invisible.

Long story short, I realized the error of my ways and about every six to eight weeks, I’m back spending a couple hours with Amoro. I’ve been with him pretty much since I moved into town ten years ago.

At the beginning, we really didn’t talk much. I have to admit, I was a little intimidated by his tough-guy persona. His shaved, shiny head, the earring, his fondness for wearing all black. He barely looked up from the soccer scores in his Italian newspaper when it was time for him to wave me over to the shampoo station.

But in the decade we’ve spent together, I’ve come to see that underneath his macho exterior, he’s really just a pussycat. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well and, among other things, I’ve learned a lot from Amoro about hair care.

Just during my last appointment I asked him if there was really any difference between “professional” and drugstore hair care products. And he was like, what? Pantene? How good could a gallon of shampoo for $5 be? You might as well flush it down the toilet. Not only does he enlighten me, he makes me laugh while he does it.

He went on to talk about misinformed shampooing habits. He was all, people use a big GLOP (coming down hard on the "p" and shaking his cupped hand for emphasis like he was in a Ragu commercial). You only need a little bit!

Excellent, Amoro! I get it now. If I splurge on the good shampoo, I’ll eventually get my money’s worth. Because instead of a handful, I need only a little dab to get the job done.

Amoro shares other secrets with me. Ones that don’t have anything to do with hair. Like the no-strings-attached relationship he has with one of his married clients. Seems she fancies Amoro for more than his hair styling expertise. He's quite happy to oblige.

He even shares secrets that some of his clients have shared with him. NEVER naming names, of course! Like the time one of his clients had a girls' night out that ended up in a hot tub. When things got a little too intimate for her taste and hands started to roam under the bubbles, she decided to call it a night. Amoro told her if it ever happened again, to make certain she called him. He would gladly take her place.

So not only does Amoro keep me looking sexy in the suburbs, he fills me in on all the sex that's happening here too. And on top of that, there are the hair styling tips. Like this one: Rub a drop of hair conditioner into your palms (yep, straight from the bottle) then smooth your ends with it. Works like a CHARM, Amoro! No more frizz! What would I do without you?