Would $300 buy me glam, and Internet fame?
His online name is Salsalhair.
His Instagram bio reads: “Sal Salcedo, Mex • SF • LA • Benjamin Salon Arts District • Changing the world one head at a time.”
He has 96,300 followers, and has posted nearly 3,000 pictures of hair he’s cut – the befores and the afters.
I’d often wondered what it would be like to see my hair on his photo feed.
Then I saw it: his ad for a “Hair Tour” that would stop in New York City.
“Yes!” I thought. “This is my chance to get the haircut of my dreams!”
I emailed him, hoping I could get a window.
In a couple hours, I received a reply.
“We have a 6:00 a.m. slot and a 7:00 p.m. slot open on Sunday. The price for a haircut is $300.”
THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I don’t write back.
Instead, I ask my friends and family for advice.
“I’m thinking about splurging because, what the heck! It will be exciting, because he’s someone I’ve followed for a while, and I love his work.”
Advice is mixed.
“I would never spend that much on a haircut!”
“You should totally do it for the experience.”
The experience wins. I email my confirmation.
***
I arrive in the city with my sister, and we decide to get dinner before my appointment. We find an overpriced café. As we enter the building, I lock eyes with the hostess. She is the most stunning woman I have ever seen. Her complexion is as dark as the night sky. She is tall, has a buzz cut and wears a form-fitting dress. She looks like she walked straight out of Vogue.
Dinner was fantastic. But I leave our meal 15 minutes early, to catch a taxi to my appointment. Though the sun had set, and traffic was subsiding, traveling in a taxi in New York always makes you feel like you’re going to be late.
At the salon, the lights are bright. The clear and shining glass is welcoming, so I walk up to the door. It’s locked. I’m seized by an instant of panic. Then a casually-dressed woman opens the door.
“Are you here for Sal?” she asks.
“Yes!” I say.
“Welcome! Sorry about the doors. We lock the doors just as a safety precaution.”
I’m puzzled, as this is a very tony neighborhood – the city’s Upper East side.
I can’t tell how far back the salon goes. From the front door, it looks as though the building never ends. I smell bleach, hair, confidence and change. The woman takes my jacket and gives me a robe. This is fancy.
“He asks if I’m going out afterward. Do I tell him I am going to probably go home to watch T.V. and go to sleep?”
She leads me to the back, and I see Sal. He’s a small man, but looks the way I’d expected — like his pictures. He wears a flowery, long button up. Stylish and expensive looking crocodile boots. Big, curly hair. He is working on another woman’s hair, and talks in a low monotone. I’m excited to actually meet him. I’d love to have a picture of him.
Sal’s assistant Brianna greets me, and sets me up at a chair. Brianna was born and raised in Los Angeles. I sit and observe. Sal is cutting away to the left of me. There are women getting their hair colored behind me. Sal’s colorist is named Cherin Choi, who happens to look like she walked out of Rolling Stone.
Her hair is black, and pink on the ends. It’s wild and free. She wears some fringe shirt and sleek black tights. She is the epitome of “trending L.A.”
I am brought back to the sink to get washed. This is my favorite part. Then it’s time to
dry the hair. I sit down, and the assistant blow dries and straightens my hair. After about one hour and a half of prep, Sal comes to my chair, and asks what I’m looking for.
He sounds tired. I am his last appointment of the day. I hope he isn’t too tired to do a good job.
“I am looking for some layers, I have a couple of photos that I love.”
Sal starts working, and I let him. We engage in some small talk. He asks me how I found out about him, and if I’m from New York City.
“I found you on Instagram, and no, not from the city, I live in a small New Jersey town.”
Boring. I feel like the most boring person in existence. I could have said I was from the Lower East side. Or that I grew up with rich parents who know style and the city.
He asks if I’m going out after I’m finished with the haircut. Do I tell him I am going to probably go home to watch T.V. and go to sleep?
The sheer scissors make a constant clipping noise, and I wonder what the finished product will look like. My sister sends texts asking me when I’ll be finished. She’s getting angry at me, because it’s taking so long.
Sal tells me about his journey to Instagram stardom. He cut the hair of some famous woman. She went home and posted her picture. And then thousands and thousands of people found her picture on Sal’s site, and they followed him.
More texts come in from my frustrated sister.
A woman who knows Sal is getting her hair colored. She, Sal, and the other workers talk about the frivolousness of L.A. life. They all sound so sure of themselves. They talk with conviction, with agency.
It’s time for the big reveal. I touch my head and the weight is gone. Sal thinned my hair dramatically, and gave me a bunch of layers. It looks good, and I wonder how in the world I’m going to make it look like this after I shower.
I pay, and my wallet cries. An imaginary tear splashes ever so softly to the glimmering tile below. Sal doesn’t take my picture. I suppose I don’t have to be on the Instagram page.
I walk outside and spend 20 minutes trying to find my sister and friend. It’s nice out here, on the Upper East side. There’s no smell of garbage, even though bags and bags of trash are piled along the street. The lights are bright. I feel like a model with my new look.
My sister and friend can’t find the car, so I loiter on the block. I look into the store in front of me. It’s a Jimmy Choo shoe store. I imagine the ladies with long fur coats and expensive shoes who shop here. I see a boot, with an unbelievable price tag attached. It’s fun to imagine the lives of people who can buy, and want to buy, shoes that costs $2,000.
It took me awhile to learn how to style my new hair. If I didn’t do anything to it, it looked like a chopped mess. I’m still waiting for the short layers to grow out. I wonder if the people in Los Angeles look like mess when they wake up, too.
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