My Friend, the Stylist
Friendships can come in all shades and textures
It was like no time had gone by — even though we hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in over a decade. We met when we were in our roaring twenties. She was a budding hair stylist working under the tutelage of a slightly more established mentor. And I was a hungry, ambitious writer who would’ve done anything to be blessed with the prime opportunities that Gen-Zers take for granted.
My stylist was lucky enough to align herself with someone who could show her the ropes and help advance her trajectory. The hair salon was located in trendy Soho, which was one of the reasons why I chose it. The ambiance attracted the elite of the industry I was desperately trying to penetrate, and my stylist was willing to make it happen. She staged an introduction with the editor-in-chief of a well-known publication that catered to Black women in the late 90s. It was supposed to be the answer to my prayers, but my luck ran out after things stalled with the deputy editor.
As a typical Taurus, my fondness for my stylist informed my loyalty and willingness to follow her to another salon managed by a new mentor. I appreciated her ability to not sweat the small stuff. She never gave me shit for going stretches of time without booking an appointment. She respected the fact that I was a starving artist…
