I keep putting the title ‘hair’ in this entry but obviously, the subject is too trivial to be written about because the word keeps disappearing from my page.  For me, hair hasn’t been significant for years.  Out of laziness, I have been getting my hair cut at the same place for decades.   But lately, I’ve been longing for the old days, when the hairdresser knew what he was doing.  I mean,  I spent years sweeping the floor in my father’s barbershop and I know what artistry is.  I used to drag my daughter to Sassoon in New York and was not disappointed in the legendary Violette in Tel Aviv, even though it meant sitting and waiting for hours with some very important people before the star stylist deigned to make an appearance.  

We shall not discuss my long fall into banality.  But the other day when I read that a well-known professional had closed up his salon on Kikar Medina (which I shun if only because of the parking) and is accepting clients in his garage, I became curious enough to make an appointment.  This is despite the fact that I have been butchered in Kikar Medina as well, even though it is considered to be akin to Rodeo Drive by many.  

The garage, it turns out, is an open-air upscale hair salon, with heated floors, bright but flattering lights, stately order, and a very professional haircutter – Amir Mizrachi.  The place was classy and so is my haircut. 

I’d forgotten what it was like to be in a place where the staff whispers to each other and the concentration is on the client and not the angry squabbles of the employees. 

We didn’t even talk politics.