Kate Bolick - Becoming a Hairstylist

T O MY FELLOW MEMBERS OF THE L ONG B ROWN H AIR B AND A LI , S OPHIE, AND A NNIE

I t is a brutally hot summer afternoon in Manhattan, the kind where merely waiting for the subway causes sweat to drip down your face and drop onto your shirt. If you make the mistake of boarding a car with broken air-conditioning, youre doomed. But when you get out at your stop in the East Village, things start looking up. Walking east on the shady side of Seventh Street, alongside the leafy green of Tompkins Square Park, you turn south onto Avenue B, and know that all is about to be right with the world.

Sure, the block is on the gritty sidebut thats a good thing. Its one of the last reminders of the old East Village of the 1960s and 70s, when Americas punk rock scene and the Nuyorican literary movement were born here. The neighborhood has cleaned up a lot since then, along with so much of New York City.

At first glance, it would appear that your destination, the popular Parlor hair salon, bears no relation to that former countercultural moment. Tucked between a specialty spice shop and an anonymous-looking youth center, Parlors white-brick facade and black-and-white-striped awnings appear particularly crisp, even jaunty. On the sidewalk out front, a sandwich board with the salons logoa whimsical silhouette of a woman with an elegant updo, set into an oval like a Victorian cameoannounces a special on blowouts.

But when you pull open the big plate-glass door, you step into a world where anti-establishment values are paramount. Unlike those other high-end boutique hair salons, the ones that cultivate a glossy, high-fashion veneerand in a city like New York can feed on all-too-human insecuritiesParlor is a haven of individuality, inclusivity, and comfort. It is easy to understand why so many people celebrated for their idiosyncrasies have been drawn here over the years, from famous actresses such as Molly Ringwald, Mary-Louise Parker, and Rue McClanahan, to the singer-songwriter Adele and the artist William Wegman.

Yes, theres the immediately blissful cool of air-conditioning. But in the grand scheme thats a minor detail. What makes Parlor special is how all the elements, big and small, add up to a uniquely welcoming environment.

Eason Polk, the young man helming the reception desk, welcomes you with a big smile and gestures toward a small table set with two glass jugs: cold water and iced herbal tea. You help yourself to a glass of each. Originally from Houston, Texas, Eason has worked at Parlor for just over a year as the guest case manager, part of the front of house team that wears many hats. Like many of Parlors employees, when hes not on the clock he devotes his time to creative and volunteer pursuits, in his case designing a high-end clothing line and mentoring LGBTQ youth.

Behind him, in the main room of the salon, the rest of Parlors beauty squad is occupied in various stages of consulting, cutting, coloring, and styling. The space is bright and cozy at once, sunlight spilling through tall windows onto redbrick walls and dark wood floors. In the background, an upbeat-yet-mellow song by a slightly obscure band is playing. There are seven stations in all, three along each wall and one in the middle. At each is an upholstered green leather swivel chair, like an old barbershop chair, and a giant Art Deco mirror, giving a feminine touch to an otherwise neutral space. Each station is neatly stocked with every conceivable styling tool: multiple types of steel scissors, both the basic haircutting shears and the specialized texturizing shears for chunking, thinning, and blending. Then there are straight razors, clippers, edgers, sectioning clips, and four types of combs (wide-tooth, tail, barber, and all-purpose, both rubber-and steel-tipped).

The cheerful chatter. The hum of blow-dryers. The friendly music. The ringing phone. The combined effect is like the gentle burbling of a brook, or the low murmur of a fine-dining establishment, without the clatter of cutlery against dishes. Through the back windows you spy a stone Shiva set atop a garden wall, amid a colorful tumble of flowers and plants.

Thats when you spot Gwenn LeMoine, standing at her station near the window, talking with a client. Unsurprisingly, given that she created this small universe, her look embodies Parlors ideals. Not long ago, she uploaded a jokey post to Instagram comparing herself to Sex Pistols frontman Johnny Rotten. On the left is a photograph of Rotten, circa 1970s, age twenty-ish, with his signature snarl and flame-orange hair sticking up all over his head, like an angry baby ducks. On the right is an iPhone picture of LeMoine, year 2018, age fifty-five, with her signature warm smile, thick black eyeglasses framing kind blue eyes, and dyed-red hair cut into a neo-punk shag, with short layers on top and feathery wisps sweeping the back of her neck. Who does/did it better? reads the caption. (I love it!! Looking more like Johnnys fav designer Vivienne Westwood! writes one commenter.)

On this sweltering day, LeMoine is in a midlength sleeveless black jersey dress with a handkerchief hem and black Doc Marten brogues. Her copper hair gleams prettily in the sun, like a shiny penny.

Her client is in her late fifties, thick chin-length curls dyed a dark chestnut brown, nearly black. She is at an impasse.

Im just sick of the upkeep, she says to LeMoine. But at the same time, Im not sure Im ready to go totally gray.

LeMoine nods. She gets it.

Strangely enough, the client adds, its my husband who keeps encouraging me to go gray. But my women friends disagree. They think I should keep my hair the way it is. I dont know why.

LeMoine nods again. Maybe hanging out with a gray-haired friend will make them feel older, she ventures. Or, maybe it will make them feel pressured to go gray themselves.

As they continue to muse over the social implications of going gray, LeMoine pulls out her iPhone and calls up an image bank of gray-hair options. Scrolling through, she explains that there are ways to color the hair that show a lot of the gray, but not all of it, and require less maintenance. The client asks questions. Their conversation becomes so absorbing that LeMoine grabs one of the green metal stools from beneath the window and sets it beside the styling chair, so she can sit and talk more easily. They remain like that, scrolling and talking, for forty-five minutes. Its amazing how long LeMoine lingers with her clientsas if she has all the time in the world, and not two businesses to run. Eventually they decide on a medium brown with caramel highlights that will allow the gray to remain visible without dominating, and LeMoine disappears into the back room to prepare the color.

It is such an ordinary, undramatic scene. No life-changing transformation. Not even any of the pastel fashion colors so trendy at the moment. And yet those forty-five minutes embody a half century of change in the hair industry.

T HE STORY OF HAIR has always been fascinating. Ancient Egyptian women used the juice of juniper berries to cover their gray. Ancient Roman women fermented leeches in vinegar for months, before applying the pungent paste to their hair as black dye. Marie Antoinettes gravity-defying hairdos rose as tall as four feet above her head. Native Americans believed that braided hair signified unity with the infinite.

But the story of hair has never moved as quickly as it has over the last half century. The pace of change is unprecedented in human history. And central to this story are hairstylists. Until the modern era, the intimate act of doing our hairwashing, cutting, stylingwas a strictly private affair, attended to at home among family, or, if you were rich, with the help of servants. Not until the late 1800s did women venture out to salons and pay strangers to manage their locks. And not until the 1960s did these paid professionals become recognized as the innovators and change agents theyre known as today.