I haven’t had the best luck with Bay Area hair stylists. My
first, a Belmont-based girl with Rihanna-red hair, “concealed” my gray streak
with a platinum blond, skunk-like stripe. I didn’t speak the same language as
the Palo Alto stylist and thus communicated via hand signals and horrified
facial expressions. The Campbell hairdresser cut an excellent bob, but she retired
soon after our appointment to enter the lucrative wedding updo racket. And so,
upon relocating to Cupertino, I decided to select my new stylist based on the
most stringent criterion: her name.
I’m aware of self-described “woman of all trades” Realtor “Megan
Winslow” who resides in Massachusetts and a Roald Dahl Fangirl “Megan Winslow”
with the Pinterest boards of a wannabe foodie. A Piano Teacher “Mrs. Megan
Winslow” lives in Oklahoma and a blue-eyed, overly pursed-lipped brunette
masquerades as “Megan Winslow” on Twitter.
But I first learned of Hair Stylist “Megan Winslow” a few months ago
when Googling my name for an article
written by Journalist “Megan Winslow.” Turns out, my “Anti-Fart Juice” opus is
outranked by the listing for a salon owner based in Cupertino. And she works
less than a mile from my house. For
better or worse, I would trust her with my tresses.
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My paramount concern was determining how to reveal myself to
this woman, a stranger in all but name. If I booked my appointment by telephone,
she might think me a prankster. If I scheduled through her online booking
system, she’d think I was a confused dumbass. Ultimately, I decided to
introduce myself in person. I would keep my driver’s license handy and flash it
like a hall pass should she question my membership within the exclusive “Megan
Winslow” club.
But Hair Stylist Megan Winslow operates her salon through
one of those multi-business shopping center spaces and occupies her booth for
scheduled appointments only. Twice I wandered into the building and scoped out
her portion of the rental, but the lights were off and the door locked. I settled
for pocketing one of her business cards.
Weeks went by. I kept Hair Stylist Megan Winslow’s business
card in my wallet and amused myself by flashing it at confused friends and
co-workers whenever conversation lagged. My hair grew scraggly, the gray streak
even grayer.
Desperation set in, and I finally reconsidered the online
scheduling route.
My appointment took place on a Saturday morning, and the building
entrance was locked when I arrived, so I keyed Hair Stylist Megan Winslow’s
booth number into the keypad. And then
she was there, blond and pretty. She was, I noted, several years younger than
me – a slight irritant, but one that solidified my superior claim to the name.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Megan Winslow.”
She smiled.
“Oh good. I thought someone was confused about the
scheduling system and mistakenly entered my name as the client.”
You mean, my name, I thought. But I shook her hand anyway.
Hair Stylist Megan Winslow and I spent my hour-long
appointment comparing lives. She’s from Tracy and has a younger sister too –
not, disappointingly, named Hailey. I told her about my childhood in Florida
and confessed to yanking out the gray hairs assaulting my side part. Like any
good hair stylist, she gently scolded me.
Hair Stylist Megan Winslow is getting married this month and
plans to adopt her husband’s last name afterward.
“It will be weird,” she said. “I’ve always been Megan Winslow. I don’t know what it will feel like not being Megan Winslow.”
Traitor, thought
part of me. The other part, the psycho, possessive bit, felt relief; Silicon
Valley couldn’t possibly accommodate two
Megan Winslows.
