James

We in turn, listened to his outrageous stories of boyfriends, and dress-up parties and forays into the dark areas that we would never dare to go. He counseled us through break-ups and fresh-start haircuts. His updos were legendary and he was an integral part of our weddings, and a blow-out appointment was part of every major event. He was one of the first places we took our new babies.

We followed him from salon to salon until he settled into working out of his apartment. We ignored the hair cuttings piling up and dust bunnies in exchange for an incredibly flexible schedule, no waiting times and reasonable rates. The exchange from anonymity of a salon to the intimacy of his apartment had its good and bad points. But there was always a kiss and hug at the door, a cup of tea waiting and the sounds of Stevie Nicks in the background.

Like any good stylist he always remembered our partners' and kids’ names and would politely inquire into our increasingly bourgeois lives. Over the years we got to know about his family, his dreams of going back to school and of adopting a child. Some of us even remembered his tiny dog’s ridiculously long name (not me). After a long and tumultuous search he found a partner who was as sweet and supportive as he was.

My doctor friend was the first to notice that he looked off and the first to know that he had been diagnosed with lung cancer; she got on the phone as soon as she left his place. He told some newer clients that he had been battling HIV for 12 years, something he had never told his regulars. And it was tough.

We started going in pairs for support (for us and for him), wondering what do you do for someone that has been in your life for over a decade but in a professional position? We left extra large tips and tried to bring little treats for his notorious sweet tooth.

Eventually, we found ourselves in a strange position – he was on strong painkillers but he was still cutting hair – our hair.  He had no extra income, extended health coverage or insurance and refused to take any help from us. So we kept going despite the fact that we were selfishly worrying about our own looks. We wondered how much longer we could let him near our head with scissors. I started to put off seeing him, letting my hair get a little long and even worse allowing the grey roots grow in.

In July, he left me a raspy message saying that he was no longer cutting hair and thanked me for being his loyal client. I felt guilty for questioning his abilities and sad that despite the years of knowing each other, the end was signaled by a cancelled appointment.

I have to admit that I also felt slightly freed. No more worrying about his competence when it came to my haircut. I could whore around and visit many different stylists until I found one that I loved. No more ties, no more expectations. A fresh cut, so to speak.

So here we were, able to find someone great, to return to a salon with all its great smells and relaxing bustle. No more making conversations with strangers and sharing the bathroom with an overnight guest.  And we didn’t even know where to start.

The four of us have scattered to different salons, all searching for the perfect mix of confidante and style guru, knowing that we will never have what we had with James. We gained hair freedom but lost a tie to our youth and to each other as well.

James died in September, it was very low-key and there was no public funeral which was too bad because we had some really fabulous hair planned – even though we would have had to do it ourselves.