The last straw with a hairdresser I loyally supported for more than a dozen years ended the day she charged me $270.00, not including tip. That was for a cut and highlights for short hair, and I paid in cash. I suspected she made a mistake in the application of the toner when it had to be done a second time, a correction I should not have had to pay for. I felt taken advantage of and decided the time had come for us to divorce. I had followed her from her original mall location to a smaller boutique salon in a strip plaza, then to a third, less-toney location in a different strip plaza. Our once-treasured relationship had run its course.

Boomer gals have decades of experience trying to find and keep good hairdressers. Once we get one who understands our quirks, preferences, and hair peculiarities, we hold on for dear life, often driving hours to follow them when they change salons. We’re loyal to a fault. One thing we have learned, however, is that these treasured relationships sometimes die a natural death. After a while, we may find that our favourite stylist no longer seems to put the same care and attention into providing the quality service we have grown to expect with each visit. We remind ourselves that when we were still working, we sometimes had “off” days too. Perhaps we should be more understanding, but an accumulation of disappointing cuts or other treatments usually signals the end.

That’s when we are forced to begin the arduous job of finding a new stylist. We ask friends, we check Yelp, we go online, and sometimes, if you’re like me, you even stop someone in the street to ask who cut her hair. It’s a critical relationship, and the search requires stealth, dedication, and patience to find someone new who can work around the flat spots on your head, your cowlicks, your frizz, or the challenges of post-menopausal hair that just doesn’t respond like it once did.

I got lucky. After dumping my long-time stylist for ripping me off, I decided to try an unassuming little neighbourhood salon in a strip plaza near my house. The stylists were Polish-Canadian (European training is usually superior). There was nothing chi-chi about their shop, but it was clean, small, and functional. My first appointment for a cut and highlights cost a mere $150.00 compared to $270.00 charged by my former stylist, whose “I haven’t seen you in a while” texts I was ignoring. A cut and blow-dry at the same salon costs $45.00 compared to $110.00 in a mall salon. Sold! I can buy a lot of Pinot Grigio with the $120.00 savings.

My luck got even better. One Wednesday after grocery shopping, I was having a bad hair day, so I decided on impulse to pop into Great Clips, one of those no-frills franchised shops next to the paint store, for a quick cut. The stylist asked if I was a senior (is that good or bad?), and when I responded that I was, she regretted to inform me that I just missed the seniors’ special cut for $13.00, which was on Tuesdays only, so I had to pay the full $26.00 for a haircut. Holy shit! I’ve now been there twice since then, and both times the cut I received was better than any I got from my former expensive $110.00 stylist. The cheapie doesn’t include a wash, which I do myself with my morning shower before I go. She squirted some water onto my hair and gave me a great cut in fifteen minutes.

There was a time when I was so intimidated by hair stylists that I would endure a bad cut, that unforgettable, horrifying Afro perm in the seventies, or disappointing highlights (I never get all-over colour because I’m paranoid about the chemicals touching my scalp), then retreat to my car and cry. Ironically, I could stand up to any tough construction superintendent I faced at work, but put me in a stylist’s chair and I was a helpless minnow. Perhaps it’s a carryover from those scalp-burning, hair-frying perms I received as a young girl when my mother thought she was doing me a favour by sending me to Hester for my annual back-to-school “do”. Not anymore.

These days, when I go to the hairdresser, I take a picture of exactly what I want, and I’m particular. I want point-cutting; I show them where I want it texturized, where I want a few extra wisps, and if she/he doesn’t get it exactly right, I sit in the chair until they do. I guess the assertiveness comes with age. My time on this earth is limited, and at my age, I don’t have many bad hair days left. I’m not willing to have a purple-haired stylist with sparkly, long, black, acrylic nails intimidate me.

The ease with which I have managed to make the change from being loyal to the same stylist for years, to walking into local salons that are much more price-friendly and convenient makes me wonder how much money I have unnecessarily squandered on high-priced hairdressers over the years. It’s amazing what old boomer gals can learn when given the chance. Maybe it’s not that complicated after all.

Feel free to share your hairdresser horror stories in the comments below.

(Disclosure: I receive no gifts or benefits from mentioning brand names in this posting.)