An ode to my hairdresser

Emily Graetz reflects on her long-distance relationship with her hairdresser 

When I moved to Sydney from my country home, I anticipated many levels of homesickness. I knew I would miss the local ice-creamery and their fruity flavours and I wasn’t surprised about the lonely nights where I wished for one last cuddle with the family dog. I expected to feel lost without my family and the comfort of towering gums over the backyard. I didn’t, however, expect to miss my hairdresser. 

When I moved I tried, on many occasions, to find a Sydney hairdresser. I asked around for recommendations, followed Instagram accounts and read online reviews. I mapped out a trip to my closest salon and even budgeted some money fully intending to commit to somewhere new. Maybe it was the fact that a simple trim would cost three times the amount, or the staunch belief that a Sydney hairdresser would mess up my highlights (as if it’s unique for a brunette to have blonde foils), but I just couldn’t do it. 

Instead, for the past 3 and half years, I have booked to have my hair done upon every return home. Sometimes I call months in advance to ensure a cut for the mid semester break and I wait eagerly for the smell of salon shampoo and the cheery welcome from the same staff I’ve known since I was 5. When we’re reunited, I recount the past months of Sydney life and in return, my hairdresser tells me about her photography job and pet cats. We say, it feels like yesterday that you were here and my hair feels new again. 

Whilst I’m still certain that my hairdresser does the best job of my hair, maybe returning to the same salon is less about the haircut and more about coming home. Maybe when I book an appointment it’s the excitement of knowing that I can escape Sydney, just for the week, to be with my family and the dogs and the local ice creamery. It’s knowing that just for a short while, I will be home again

I’d hazard a guess to say that many country, interstate and international students will have their own hairdresser stories. The places they return to that make them feel welcomed and safe again and the places where they can take that big sigh of relief knowing they are home. Sure I left for a better education, to fulfil those lofty dreams and live out a life of new horizons. And I am privileged to have had the opportunity to do so, to live in Sydney with its endless opportunities and beaches and coffee you just can’t get at home. 

But belonging is more complex than simply packing your bags and leaving. Sometimes belonging is fragmented and split across towns and cities and homes and people. Sometimes moving means holding on to the habits and routines that we really could let go of and still feeling homesick even with all the opportunities and beaches and good coffee. Sometimes it means clinging on to the fragments of an earlier life that you had to let go of. 

And so, when I start to feel lost and lonely in the city, I know it’s time to book an appointment with the hairdresser. I know it’s time to go home.