"I'm Not That Passionate about Hair"
musings from my latest haircut
Tuesday Tastemaker #33: better late than never
IT'S TUESDAY IF I SAY IT'S TUESDAY.
Wanna know a boring but true fact about having curly hair?
It's a real bitch to find someone who can cut it the way you like. I've lived in Asheville for almost 15 years(!), and just now, I've finally found my person.
Some stylists are so into their curly methods that it feels a little culty.
Some of the most popular curly cuts are super labor intensive (nope), and the cuts leave my hair looking too "pretty," with a shape I hate.
Some charge $250/hour; others are *so* cool and edgy that I feel like an awkward dork in their chairs.
But Sarah? She's juuuuust right. And today she told me something really interesting:
"I'm not that passionate about hair."
Early in her career, she apprenticed at a fancy-pants salon downtown. And management was always seeking stylists who were passionate about hair.
Sarah always answered no to this question—this is one of the reasons I like her; she could've just lied and said yes? lol—because the reason she loves cutting hair (and, I'd argue, the reason she's so good at it) is because she's passionate about something else:
The person attached to the hair.
Making something (hair) right.
The energetic exchange between her and the person at the receiving end of her scissors.
Stylists who are obsessed with hair—the perfect blond, say, or the intricacies of a highly technical cut—are SO obsessed with hair that they often miss the human whose hair it is.
And what do they get?
A perfect blond, maybe—according to the stylist—but also, a client who feels intimidated and cowed in the chair, lacking the language or the confidence to express what they want and don't want.
Let me be clear: if you cut hair, or provide any other creative service, part of your job is to act as a translator.
I can't tell a stylist the exact cut I want, in hair-cutting lingo.
I can tell you I want a shaggy rocker vibe. My hair is thinning on top and it's weird. I like it long. I can't do heavy products because my hair is too fine, and sometimes the curls fall out.
A great stylist will listen to that and interpret it in their stylist brain. They'll observe my hair and connect what they're seeing and feeling to the things I'm saying. They'll ask questions that make sense to me, like, "Show me what you usually do when you mess with your hair during the day."
You see where I'm headed here, yes?
I never ask a client, "What's your brand voice?" or "Who's your ideal customer?"
I ask them things like:
How do you want people to feel when they land on your website?
What are your top five pet peeves about your industry?
Why do you do what you do?
I am passionate about words. But I think, like Sarah, I'm even more passionate about sculpting a piece of writing into the masterpiece it already is.
I once compared my editing work to the joy of cleaning a dirty car: The car still works. It still does all the things a car needs to do. But it's not very nice to use, is it?
The act of laying hands on its surfaces—vacuuming the crumbs and trail dust off the floor mats; wiping the dust off the dashboard and radio knobs; scrubbing the film from the inside of the windshield—it's sacred somehow.
I'm physically engaged with this car now. I've shown it labor and love.
When I'm done, it still does what a car is supposed to do, only now it offers a new-car delight for anyone who chooses to use it. (This metaphor also works with a dirty bathroom, but nobody wants their writing compared to a dirty bathroom.)
This is the feeling I get when I edit a piece of writing.
Feeling brave? I invite you to submit something you're working on (just reply to this email, I trust you), and let me workshop it in one of my Sunday Coffee Breaks.
You'll get invaluable ideas and feedback on your writing from moi, and you'll help the other writers on this list who will benefit from seeing what we do together.
See you next Tuesday!
-Sam