Max

“Hi, how can I help you?” the stylist asked.

“The sign says walk-ins are welcome; are you able to fit me in?”

“Yes, have a seat, Hon,” the stylist answered.

The standard greeting of Old Virginia. But this stylist was young. There was no wedding ring or other jewelry. There was no nametag. The voice could be male or female. The waist length ponytail added to my confusion. The workstation didn’t help either—no photos, artwork, or other clues to an appropriate conversation opening. Suddenly I realized just how much I defaulted to gender stereotypes whenever other conversational cues are absent.

Years ago I gave a talk about how etiquette provides a place to hang our hats and coats, a generally universally accepted code that helps begin a first-time meeting without fear of inadvertently insulting another. The rules provide a sense of security, a sense of knowing how to begin. They aren’t meant so much as a means to control behavior but more as examples of how to love others as we ourselves want to be loved, a framework on which to build a relationship. But outside clues are important if we are to understand which guidelines apply.

Here in this salon, however, I was stuck. In essence I stood, hat and coat in hands, not knowing what to do next. All cues, even my least favorite one of gender, were gone. With males, as a contented single female, I tend to tread carefully, and keep a distance that makes it clear I am not available as a potential significant other. I speak less about feelings. Even the topics I choose gravitate toward that which is appropriate for the “traditional male.” With females, on the other hand, my tone is lighter, more relaxed, less guarded, more open about feelings. Beginning topics gravitate toward those of interest to traditional females.

An imperfect system? Definitely. But historically it’s been a starting place for developing rapport, a default that failed me now.

“What are we doing today?”

“It’s been too long since my last haircut. It was a pixie and I am thinking of doing that again.”

“Pat Benatar has a pixie. She’s my hero.”

The stylist gently picked up strands and let them fall, studying the texture.

“Nice hair. Lots of wave.”

“And cowlicks. I loved my last hairstylist, but she is too far away since I moved. She cut by art, not measurement. I have found my favorite stylists cut that way.”

I hoped the tone would be heard as friendly but also a tad bit nervous about someone new trying to tame my unruly locks. The result was perfect, and ended up being one I had no trouble maintaining.

It was now time to leave and here in the south, the standard exit for someone my age is, “Thank you, ma’am” or “Thank you, sir.” Or for those who have been here longer, “Thank you, hon.”  As a relative newcomer to Virginia, I can’t make myself do the latter so I resorted to a neutral “Thank you so much,” then paid and asked for a follow-up appointment.

After returning to the car, I looked at the appointment card. The stylist’s name was Max. A nickname for Maxine or Maxwell? or just Max?

Today I returned to the shop, still confused about social cues, wondering what we could talk about. At least I had a name, a means for being a bit more personable.

“Good morning, Max.”

After a brief comment about the bitter cold, the conversation switched to what I wanted, my desire to reshape my pixie.

“I remember talking last time about a singer you liked who also had a pixie,” I ventured, with more than a little trepidation. Music is not the context I usually choose for a discussion. For some reason, certain music styles agitate my ADHD. Therefore, I don’t listen to the radio and, as much as possible, carefully select the music I hear. Unfortunately that means I also do not know much about the artists. Choosing this conversation thread, therefore, could take me to a personal dead end and a hunt for a new topic. But it was all I had. Thankfully it proved enough.

“Pat Benatar, my hero. She did a benefit after Sandy.”

“I love hearing stories like that. It makes the artists human.”

“Yes, she grew up in Statin Island.”

“Really? So this was personal for her?”

Max then summed up Ms. Benatar’s history, her beginnings as a singing waiter and how she was “found.” Chosen details made it clear what was important to Max. This was storytelling at its finest. A form of communication I knew well, having grown up in Iowa where storytelling and family legends identify values, outline boundaries, and illustrate cultural norms.  

Pat Benatar began singing opera, Max said. But she found herself the first time she sang rock and roll and never went back to opera.

“Being true to herself,” I said. “That is such great history. I’m of a different generation, obviously, and his vocal range was nowhere near Pat Benatar’s, but Johnny Cash is one of my favorites.”

Max ran away with the conversation.  Johnny overcame so much. His lyrics were profound. And once famous, he helped George Jones get started.

“Ahh yes, Johnny Cash didn’t just break through; he shared what he knew with others.”

“Yes,” Max agreed.

Through the chosen details in both stories, I discovered Max and I treasured many similar values. Overcoming life’s challenges and our own mistakes. Hard work. Earning the titles we wear. Giving back to the community. Mentoring others. Doing what one was created to do.

Max dried my hair, added a little spray, and handed me a mirror.

 “Max, you have a great job. You help people feel beautiful.”

I was not just referring to the cut, but also the affirmation that comes when someone shares your internal compass. Before the next appointment, I will find some piece of trivia about Pat Benatar on which to continue the conversation for I now know Max. And now I know the rules. Shared rules, in fact.

And I like feeling beautiful.