Every six weeks or so, as mentioned in a previous story, I develop a marked grey halo around my hairline. This is the manifestation not only of my genes (my mother did, after all, turn grey by around the time she was thirty), but also of my level of maturity (read: age). Since my mother used to be my hairdresser until she retired, it took me a long time to find someone I felt comfortable enough with to give him carte blanche of the coiffure.
During my last visit, which was recently enough for the dye to still leave glaring evidence on my pillowcases, the hairdresser decided that “we” will go brown for this round. Since I pay him to make me look different every time (it’s a contract we agreed upon from the outset), I just nodded and sipped my wine, happy to leave some decisions to others for a change. And so, the dye was cast – first on the roots and then worked down onto the ends. There followed a scalp massage of epic delight and then an obligatory cut. By this time, I was on my second glass of wine and my sister had joined me to solve her own halo-around-the-hairline problem.
Then this happened: Mr Amazing* combed my hair, looked at the roots and decided that they were still too light. Not considering the time – it was 20 minutes before closing, most other employees had left and the sun had already set – he asked the assistant to apply dye to my roots again.
Said I, “I wouldn’t even have known, you know?” Said he, “I can’t let you walk out of here like that, my darling. You’re my advertisement.”
The root cause of great service, then, seems to be personal pride, which has nothing to do with external factors. It’s an intrinsic thing. A heart thing.
Imagine the possibilities…
*Not his real name