A Cut Above

In New York, relationships are often short-lived—unless it's with your stylist, in which case, the union can last longer than some marriages. For years, my one and only had been Louise O'Connor, owner of Manhattan's OC 61 salon, who, like a generous boyfriend, lavished me with gifts that included deeply discounted and skillfully executed cuts, blowouts, and conditioning masks. When I left my full-time job as a magazine editor, I felt too guilty accepting the VIP treatment, and, fully aware that I could never really afford my incredibly talented steady, took my mid-back length strands to another salon. Eleven months and three cuts later, I had more regrets than Chris Brown. Hacked and mutilated in so many places, my previously Gisele-like mane had turned into a schizophrenic, late 90s-esque, layered disaster. Frustrated, I decided to chop it all off and start over. And so I called Louise. Days later, I arrived at her salon like a guilty puppy, desperately clutching images of Kate Moss' glam, shoulder-skimming style. Even after seeing the wretched proof of my straying past, Louise gave me a warm hug and set to work. An hour later, not only was my hair restored (It was shorter, sleeker, and cool again), but my relationship, as well. Lesson learned? Cheating is always bad, and spending money for the right haircut is always good.