It's kind of funny how little face-to-face interaction is required of human beings anymore.
You can haggle for insurance online, check yourself out at Giant Eagle and e-mail your cube mate to tell him to shut up.
But there's one thing that still requires you to step away from the computer screen: Getting your hair done. In fact, stylists might be the last chance any of us have to make friends outside of work and the Internet.
(There was one attempt to replace the hairdresser with technology. It was called the Flowbee, and it shall never be spoken of again.)
The idea of going to the salon for a weekly wash-and-set is so June Cleaver, I know, but at the same time, it's a great way to keep your place in the neighborhood.
At Lewis' in Shadyside last week, I saw a lady, easily in her seventh decade, with a newly fluffed crown of meringue curls. The stylist and receptionist knew her by name and reminded her to come back for coloring in two weeks.
It's a kind of hair safety net -- if something bad happened and Mrs. Cleaver missed her appointment, people would notice.
Some states and nonprofit organizations even do community outreach through hair and nail salons -- from domestic violence awareness to cancer screenings.
Whether a woman drops a benjamin on a bang-trimming or gets a cheap chop at Fantastic Sam's, she tends to be a creature of habit. Once she finds a hairdresser who can make her feel like a million bucks for $30, it's going to take a major force of nature for her to not get her hair done.
But moving to a new city can put a crimp in your primping plans.
It took a little salon-hopping to find The One after I moved here, but I think things are getting serious between me and Laura.
That's not to say our relationship always has been rosy. The first cut she gave me was genius, but when I started looking shaggy a few weeks later, I cheated on her. I didn't mean to -- it just happened. I couldn't find the card she gave me and had to take an appointment with another hairdresser.
I hoped to get in and get coiffed without her seeing me, but, ever the attentive stylist, she not only said hello but continued the conversation we'd started the first time.
And that's when I realized it was meant to be.
Lewis' ties me to Pittsburgh life, like I've become a regular at Cheers, but without the outstanding tab. The receptionist even knows my name.
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