Last night I posted about Vidal Sassoon, and this morning I woke up to a comment from a reader in America, with whom I hadn’t corresponded before. It was her story of visiting the Vidal Sassoon salon in London in the early 70s, and of meeting Vidal himself. It was so wonderful that I immediately wrote back to tell her that comments like that were what made blogging so worthwhile. A second email winged its way back through the ether with more details, and then I realised that this had to be turned into a guest blog. So here is Rebecca from America with her story about Vidal Sassoon:
This isn’t a memory I’d thought much about before, and it seemed so different looking at it now from an adult perspective. But as soon as I saw that Vidal Sassoon had died, it came back so clearly.
In 1973 or 1974, I think it was, I was a young college girl visiting London during the summer. I was 20 or 21, but looked about 14, a tiny girl from Southern Louisiana. I had been getting my haircut at a salon in New Orleans, where I was going to school, where all of the stylists had been trained in a Sassoon school. So, naturally, I wanted a cut from a REAL Sassoon salon. And I got my chance that summer.
Sitting in the chair in London, I listened to my stylist suggest a kind of pixie cut and what did I think about a dye job? A nice deep red, maybe? It would certainly be the most exotic look I’d ever tried to carry off, and I went with it enthusiastically.
The cut was great, and I loved the ragged back that looked like a lawnmower ran amok over my neck. The color practically glowed. And as I was just looking in the hand mirror at the back, and telling the stylist how much I loved it all, the Man himself showed up suddenly next to my chair.
Thinking back, I believe he must have wondered how this American child had ended up in a chair in his salon. But he was amazingly gracious and charming. Asked where I was from, about the salon where I usually got my hair cut, how I was enjoying London.
Seriously, it would have been no surprise if he had simply been too busy to notice some little tourist nobody in his place. And no fault, either, because I never in a million years would have expected him to notice me.
But he did. And he seemed genuinely interested in hearing my story, was not the least bit rushed, even seemed to enjoy the fact that a young girl considered a visit to his salon a major event to make time for after crossing an ocean to visit a foreign country.
Especially since my huge glasses made it plain that I was not a typical fashionista. Looking good has certainly always been a goal for me, but I’ve never been a completely up to the minute fashion plate. And I’m way too short to carry off most fashion in the best of style. I think that made him appreciate it even more.
But, really, isn’t hair in a class of its own? Just like he was. What a gentleman
Thank you for letting me share all this with you, because no one I know personally would actually appreciate how special it is.