Hairy horrors

When I went to New York in 2000, I decided that was the place to get my hair cut. As the gateway to America, it has a wide range of peoples, colours, creeds, races and, most importantly to me, hair types. A place, I thought, where being mixed-race is common, where black and white, Indian and Latino, Chinese and Jewish come together in one big, happy melange. A place where the racial divide is but a blur, where Anglo-Saxons happily order siu mai, where those of Arab heritage eat Jerk chicken, where Afro-Caribbeans get their nails done in Little Korea.

OK, so I was 20, naive, hopeful. It was pre-9/11. For me, New York City symbolised the ultimate cultural melting pot, and I couldn't wait to find someone who understood me and my curls.

Besides, anyone in NYC had to have more clue that any hairdresser in Hong Kong. Faux-fro and Asian is not a common mix. Even the western hairdressers I'd approached had shrunk back in fear at the sight of my mass of trying-to-be-ringlets.

I had hoped to get an appointment at Ouidad, a salon run by a, I think, Lebanese woman with an enviable head of glossy locks. A salon dedicated to those who know the pain of curly hair and which aims to help you love your curls and accept life as a curly girl. I was so excited to learn of the existence of this place - finally, a chance to bond with fellow sufferers, talk to people about the drag of humidity, find empathy for those straight-haired "I'd do anything for your curls" comments and find a solution to the partial bane of my life.

Of course, by the time I called up to book, there wasn't an appointment available for my trip.

After the disappointment faded (fairly quickly - after all, this was New York, New Yoick! Everywhere would be able to deal with my mongrel mane!), I booked an appointment at the Elizabeth Arden Red Door salon at Saks, Fifth Avenue. If you can't get specialist care, you can at least go somewhere swish! Got pretty excited at the prospect of New York hair, at being dealt with by someone accustomed to the gamut of hair textures and types, and convinced my travel buddies (blonde-thick-smooth, and mousy-but-blonded-wavy on their parts) to come with and get zhuzzhed.

After a brief shopping spree (Calvin Klein had just introduced their makeup range and we'd fallen in love with it - the first lipgloss not to revolt me, just had to have it!), we entered the sleek salon, all white and bright and NYC, ready to have our tangled tresses dealt with. I had explained when I made the appointment that I was mixed race with curly, troublesome hair, and that I'd hoped to have someone who was familiar with my hair type.

It's true that to assume anything is stupid.

I sat in my chair with my tea, dreaming of the young, hip, probably gay, quarter-Mexican, eighth-Egyptian, eighth-Jamaican, quarter-Irish, eighth-Pakistani, eighth-Kenyan guy, and relaxing with the knowledge that this hairdresser would fix my life. Then I glanced up into the mirror as my stylist arrived.

The fact she was a sour-faced, dowdy 40-something in this sleek place was the least of my problems. What really hit me in the gut was that she was Chinese.

Now, if that comes across as racially insensitive, you've just ignored all of what I've written above.

And not only was this miserable middle-aged woman of an ethnicity totally removed from my own - after all, this WAS, as I repeatedly reminded myself, she was BOUND to be accustomed to hairtypes of all sorts - from her accent and the look of disdain and confusion on her face (not an easy combination, i've tried to copy it) she didn't appear to have left Hong Kong that long ago, and she didn't appear to have ever seen anything other than perfectly straight, thick, luscious Asian hair.

I was not entirely hopeful.

But the shampoo was pleasant enough (and as an aside, this is something that, no matter what your hairtype, Hong Kong has got absolutely right: you don't just get your hair cleansed, you get a full-on head and neck massage and it's glorious; Aveda seems to do it particularly well, but even the tiny local $35-shampoo places take the time to really rub you up the right way) and I reminded myself I was in NYC, all would be well.

Of course, it wasn't.

To cut a long story, and split ends, short, she took too much off, took no account of my face shape or age, and dried it in rollers. I looked like an old woman - a trendy old woman, I guess, but old, just the same - when she was done. And for the first time in my life, I burst into tears before I'd left the salon (obviously I always cry once out of sight of the stylist). But they weren't the usual tears of "obviously my hair is a mess, it's not perfect, straight gorgeousness"; these were tears of frustration, that someone I had put my trust in had failed me so badly.

OK, maybe I overreacted a soupcon. But let's face it: a girl's hair is a big part of who she is. When your hair looks good, you feel good. When you haven't washed it for days and all you can do is shove it in a ponytail and cover it with a scarf, you feel daggy. So when someone created a monstrosity on my head and expected me to pay US$150, I got mad.

And I got a discount.

I got over the hair. At least she'd introduced me to the world of short hair - a world I haven't left since. There's an upside to everything.

And if all goes according to plan, I'll be back in NYC this autumn. There are more than just the one Ouidad salon now, so chances of getting an appointment are significantly higher. And if I don't manage that, I can at least stock up on their superb Curl Control Gel. Frizz begone!