Ms. Rizzolo was working out of Sparrow, a scruffy salon in Greenpoint the size of a large bedroom. Her own hair was enviably long and thick, as if she wakes up in the morning with the kinds of beachy waves that keep Drybar afloat. She was wearing an outfit that was sort of bohemian folkloric — a white tank top and neckerchief over a peasant skirt with a medicine pouch around her neck that I like to imagine held some kind of special crystal. She greeted me and put on Stevie Nicks’s “Edge of Seventeen,” which seemed like a good omen, as Ms. Nicks has both tousled hair and the right high priestess vibes to soundtrack a healing session.
I watched Ms. Rizzolo in the mirror as she sprayed on some Yarok Feed Your Ends leave-in conditioner on her hands and then ran her fingers through my hair. “The crown chakra,” she said of the top of my head. “There is a lot of information there.” I wasn’t sure what my seventh chakra was telling her, so I made sure to note I wasn’t looking for a big change, just a good trim, maybe a few more layers in the back.
She pulled out her scissors and began cutting my hair dry, curl by curl — maybe the second time in my life someone has cut my hair that way. This was not about precision. Instead of pruning a hedge, which is what getting my hair cut often feels like, this was more like flower arranging, defining the shapes but mostly letting them fall where they wanted to go.
“What do you want to let go?” Ms. Rizzolo asked.
Some people view haircuts as therapy, but I’ve never been one to spill to my stylist. Yet I found myself opening up to her easily, talking about how I felt an array of feelings about my relationships — confused, angry, sad — and wanted to shed some of their weight and let things go in order to better come into my own.
Was it emotional muck? Yes, but the point, it seemed, was to just let it out without analysis….