Haircut by Tarot

From The Times
December 7, 2007

Kate Maxwell thought that she had New York sussed. Then she went for a haircut by Rainbow . . .

Moving to New York wasn’t that hard. I found an apartment the size of a tablecloth, worked out how to order a “tall Americano” without getting two, discovered where to buy groceries (you don’t). But in a city where grooming is everything and even dogs get their nails painted, I balked at trying to find a hairdresser: there was just too much choice.

So when a colleague recommended hers it seemed to be the solution. At 9pm the next day I find myself pressing the buzzer on a brownstone in the East Village, pushing open the door and walking up two fluorescent-lit flights of stairs. Rainbow, tall, with long, bum-grazing blonde hair, greets me. She leads me, floor-length dress swishing across the painted boards, to a deep-red kitchen where candles flicker.

“I like the colour,” I say, motioning to the walls. “I wanted it to feel like a womb,” she explains, before asking whether I’ve been told what she does. I nod, solemnly. Because Rainbow is not merely a hairdresser; Rainbow is also a “minister”. Before raising her scissors she will read my tarot cards, then she will cut my fortune into my hair. (Only in New York – there’s always something on the side.)

“You’ve come on the right day,” says Rainbow. “Today is the day of progress.” Suddenly the subtle trim I’d been hoping for is looking less likely. A pack of tarot cards is spread on the table and I am invited to pick randomly. Control freak that I am, I ask: “How many?” She waves her ethereal – if strangely large – hand: “Don’t think about it.”

When she turns my ten choices over she gasps. “I’ve never seen so many harmonising cards,” she says. She asks whether I’ve been through emotional upheaval recently. How perceptive, I think. Then I remember that I’ve just told her that I moved from England three weeks ago, leaving behind my friends, family and boyfriend. No matter. There is also creativity and prosperity in my cards. Now is a good time to make money. “And I’m seeing lots of words, lots of sheets of paper,” she continues. “My visa application?” I volunteer. She looks uncertain. “I’m a journalist?” She nods, smiling.

When the reading is over, Rainbow places a pack of 40 matches and a pen in front of me. I am to strike a match each morning while looking in the mirror. This will make me “self-actualise”.
“Now write down what you want to take from the reading,” she says. She waits. My pen hovers over the matchbox. Never have I been so defeated by writer’s block. Sensing my anguish, she suggests a couple of lines to get me started. I copy them verbatim: “Creative juices flowing; home as sanctuary,” then add one of my own for good measure: “Relationships blooming.” She asks me to read it out.

“ That’s beautiful,” she says.“I’m going to cut it all into your hair.” Finally, the haircut – I’d almost forgotten it in the New Age haze. (At this point, I should mention that I have straight brown hair down to my shoulders. I had assumed that I’d leave looking more or less the same, minus a few split ends.) Rainbow informs me that my reading translates to my hair as “bangs” – a fringe – and layering. I shudder; the candles flicker. I am not good with either of these styles, let alone both together. When I had a fringe and layers five years ago people told me that I looked like Suzi Quatro.

The scissors are hovering. This is my chance to object, to ask for a trim – which is what I came for. Perhaps it’s because I don’t want to upset the chi, to destroy my future harmony, let alone my promised prosperity, but all I can muster is “great”.

Twenty minutes later I look in the mirror and someone completely different looks back. I have a thick, blunt fringe stretching round my forehead to my ears. What’s left of the rest is feathery and thin, like a rat’s tail. Rainbow loves it. “You look so cute, so Valley of the Dolls!” she exclaims. “I love what it’s doing to your body language. It’s so balancing!” I smile weakly. The compliments keep coming. “You’re going to get everyone looking at you. People in the office will really notice!”

“They won’t recognise me,” I say with a nervous laugh. “They’ll ask where that new girl Kate went.” Then I do what I always do when I don’t like a new haircut: I tip extra generously.
Rainbow plays a song on her lute. And it’s over. It’s 11pm when I walk out into East 13th Street, $140 (£68) lighter and with what feels like a hat over my eyes. No one looks at me.
Back in my apartment, I google Valley of the Dolls. I do not like what I see. When I look in the mirror the next morning I forget to light the first of my 40 matches; instead I shriek. But somehow I feel initiated – I have arrived in New York.