What it feels like to...

...Get a Beauty School Haircut.

The Paul Mitchell School in downtown San Diego is located on 4th and A. Located in an imposing white building, a former bank, it is easily accessed from the Sante Fe train station, past the courthouse, cafes, and the civic center.

I arrive about 20 minutes early, check in with the twenty-something at the front desk. He reminds me a punk rock front man, spiky black hair -longer on one side than the other-, black lipstick, an eyebrow ring, and an indecipherable tattoo, curling half letters growing out from the white collared button down shirt he is sporting along with a black vest, black jeans, black jack boots. Black and tattoo is obviously the school uniform. Everyone from the supervisors to the students wears black and white, tattoos of all sort are permitted: angel wings, neck scrolls, sunbursts rotating around bleeding red hearts.

I am directed to wait along with about nine others in their lounge area, which consists of three white ottomans, piles of fashion magazines, six plasma screens all showing a cirque d'soliel-type hair and fashion parade. The smell of the 80's rush over me while I wait: perming solution, aerosol sprays, Obsession. I get a different type of whiff every few minutes as the lounge is located between the work floor and the student time clocks and classrooms. Students rush passed the ten of us in a dismissive fashion, no eye contact allowed and I get the feeling that they are too cool for clients. School, however, they obvious think is "rad" because they are up in everyone’s business, checking each other’s dye jobs, watching like a pride of lions as a fellow classmate slashes into this hour’s prey.

Soon, Casey, my stylist, approaches and leads me to a chair in the corner. She is still fresh faced, her brunette color looks natural, her black a bit more subtle than the others stylists near us. She takes a moment to assess my hair. Her eyes grow wide as she handles the split ends in the back. "How long has it been since..."
I am unable to answer honestly, because I have forgotten. I explain that I had been trying to grow it out, what I'm going for now, and she brings her instructor over, they confer for a moment, then the instructor, a very white-blonde Annie Lennox look alike, writes some cryptic symbols on the mirror in front of me. Next, Casey leads me over to the wash room.

The washroom is behind the check-in counter, in the old bank vault. We wait our turn outside and Casey and I make small talk.
"Yes I have the day off, I teach 8th grade, No, no, I like 8th graders. What about you?"
Casey is moving to Napa in a month, she likes doing facials and up-dos, her boyfriend is a night club promoter, so she's not into happy hour, more like blood marys and hair of the dog.

Finally, our turn in the washroom has come and I follow Casey into the red-lit, concrete vault and take my seat. "Would you like a sugar scrub?" Casey is running warm water through my hair. "Uh, probably" I answer not knowing or caring really what it entailed, I needed some serious hair and scalp work, and because I knew I would pay less here than at a salon I went for it. Blissful, is the best word to describe the next ten minutes. Warm water, a grainy sugar scrub massage into my hair, rinsed, conditioner massaged into my hair, a hot towel wrapped around my head, then my temples, neck, forehead, sinuses, all massaged slowly. After the final rinse, Casey tells me to open my hand. She popped a Hershey's kiss into it. This unexpected token, signaled that bliss time was up, time for serious business.

The haircut took about 45 minutes. As a rule, students take longer to finish the job than professionals and I felt Casey's intense thoroughness and determination. As she finished, she began to dry and style my hair. Our small talk ceased at this point, I thought about the next item on my to do list for the day, her instructor signed her off. My hair was cute enough, all the dryness gone, a weight lifted and she handed me a mirror and twirled me around to get a better look at the back. It all looked fine, she didn't transform me into a Heidi Klum or make me look too much like my mother, so I was happy.

As she walked me to the register, I pay the $17, hand her a tip and finally notice her tattoo. On the inside of her wrist, the single word LOVE scrolls. Adorable.