do the rachel

you stupid, no good, piece of crap haircut.

I have identified my problem. Gosh dang it all. I will never have another good haircut unless I move back to Albuquerque or Durham. Actually, the salon I'm talking about was in Raleigh, but the memories all live in Durham. Studio 929, husband-wife-duo Silvia and Brian, representin the 9-1-9, holla! Or as I like to say in Jewish circles, Challah!

I guess there always has to be a tradeoff. In Durham, I lived alone in a state of forced misery that I thought would confer the Legitimate Grad Student mantle upon me. I drank Tang, ate canned biscuits, and tried (unsuccessfully) to skip the occasional meal. But it was here that I had The Best Haircut I Ever Did, or Would, Have. I got the first one in December of 2001 and thought nothing of it, other than it was $45, more than I had yet paid for such a service. Until I was at a party with the girl who had recommended Silvia, and another woman came up to her and gushed, “I just had the bEST HAIRCUT EVER WITH SILVIA! OH MY GOD!” I thought she was just trying to be the next Sex & the City tagline, but it got me thinking. Could there really be a “best haircut ever?”

Turns out there can. And I've already had it. And don't have a chance of ever finding it again.

Also turns out I am always on a quest for the best [_______blank_______] ever. Best breakfast burrito ever? Albuquerque, of course, at either Twisters in the South Valley or Flying Star. Or Java Joe's. Or R.B. Winnings. Basically, wherever I'm the most hungover, that is where the BB will taste the best. Best eggs and grits ever? Durham, at Elmo's. Best makeup shopping? Mark Pardo in Albuquerque, where you can pretend to be looking for the 'perfect mascara' and get a free makeover by the best undiscovered queens the city has to offer. Best mall food? Walking by Gloria Jean's at Coronado with Lucrecia or Beth, then stopping at See's for a free sample, then giving in completely at Wendy's or Del Taco. Best waste of money? A day in Kona. At least that one is still applicable to my life. $4 for a cup of locally grown coffee? Come on.

Anyway. Living in paradise? The tradeoff is having your every haircut be a game of Russian Roulette. Where your stylist could be a woman named Paulette, who refers to your home island as “paradise” at least twenty times during the 45 minutes, and tricks you into confiding in her about your religious inclinations because you assume she is somewhat liberal, then turns out to be a Mormon from Utah who doesn't believe in living together premaritally. After you've told her you are living with a half-Jewish guy, and realized she's noticed, and expressed disapproval of, your bi-racialness.

AND CUTS YOUR HAIR IN THE RACHEL GREENE.

That is what I've realized. No matter how many pictures of the tousled, non-Rachel-styled bedroom look from Victoria's Secret I take in, how many creative verbs and adjectives and adverbs I use to describe my desired look (“I want the hair to cavort lethargically about my nape"), all haircutters, save Silvia, revert to their trump card from the Middle American Hairdos of the Mid-Nineties Deck: The Rachel Greene. They perfected it back then, so why not break it out at every possible opportunity now? Their careers between 1994 and 1999 were probably a facile assembly line of shoulder-length shags. When they see me walk in the door with my clueless look and obvious obeisance to the beauty industry, I am a flashing goldmine. Click, autopilot: Give her the Rachel, act like "it's about time" and jump ahead to lunch.

So when I've said I looked like Claire Huxtable, this is what I meant. I've had this haircut six times in the past wo years. Claire was a better, blacker version of Rachel, at least hairwise. The working woman's mullet.

Never again.

NEVER AGAIN.