Jan. 08, 2007
Copyright © Las Vegas Review-Journal

THE UNKINDEST CUT OF ALL

Our reporter assumes the identity of 'Mr. Corey,' hairdresser extraordinaire ...

Did you put layers in it?" Vanessa Marquez asks.

I spy a disapproving facial scrunch in the hand mirror my client is using to study the back of her head.

Slight layers, I reply, adding that I can give her more if she wants.

Marquez, 24, is a firefighter. This is good news because it means she routinely faces perils greater than a goofball reporter with sharp scissors. In July, for example, she fought the Loop Complex Fires that closed Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area.

Marquez's hair is not layered, of course, not even slightly. The ends look like uncooked capellini. And they're more jagged than straight, as though the pasta box were tipped to one side instead of upended.

"Interesting," says Keno Caldwell, 32. One of 25 stylists at David Douglas Salon & Spa, the Las Vegas native is posing as my assistant. She seems congenial but perplexed by this experiment.

"It's a little bit crazy," she said earlier, "because we deal with sharp implements and chemicals that could actually hurt people."

One of the salon's owners dates Marquez's roommate. A fan of my adventures, the owner offered Marquez a free makeover, but didn't tell her I was the reason.

I did not come entirely unprepared. I cut my own hair once, as a child. I did a good job, too, playground put-downs aside. And I was really good at that magnet toy where you use iron fillings to create hair and a beard for a bald guy.

Just in case, Caldwell gave me a refresher course.

"I'm assuming, from the looks of your own hair, that you obviously know what's going on," she said.

To boost my client's confidence, I'm wearing a Flock of Seagulls 'do, fuzzy jacket and Seinfeld-puffy shirt.

"I'm laughing with you," Caldwell said, "not at you."

Layering is a lot harder than it seems from underneath my random Supercuts stylists. As it's cut, hair must be held at 90-degree angles in inch-long strips corresponding to specific points on the face.

"It's not something you can learn in an hour," said Caldwell, who attended cosmetology school for 2 1/2 years in New York.

Caldwell works in one of seven secluded suites off the main floor. (She was probably chosen because this privacy reduces the chance that other customers will see me at work and never return.) She has rented the room since August, giving $20 men's and $40 women's haircuts to approximately 15 of her 125 regular clients each day — and keeping whatever profits don't go to Uncle Sam.

"I love my job," she said. "I was born to do it. I was always doing things with my hair and stealing my mom's makeup."

There are 13,500 licensed cosmetologists in Las Vegas, according to the Nevada State Board of Cosmetology (which promised me they wouldn't prosecute). The ones with regular work earn between $30,000 and more than 10 times that amount.

"Is that a new technique, Mr. Corey?" Caldwell asks, referring to the way I'm holding my scissors. They go in my right hand, with my comb, as my left hand pinches the hair. It's called palming your shears. Instead, I place the scissors back on the counter between every snip.

Caldwell's question worries Marquez.

"I was just asking about his haircutting technique," Caldwell explains. "It's something they didn't teach us in school." (I inform Caldwell that I'll teach her later.)

In medieval times, barbers were also surgeons. (The red and white stripes on their poles represent bloody bandages.) Today, I am single-handedly bringing this correlation back into vogue.

Ow!

Don't worry. That wasn't Marquez. She has Cher-length hair, which means I'm always far from her eyes, ears and nose. It was me. On three separate occasions, I nearly shear my palm while trying to palm my shears.

Caldwell's first professional job was giving $500 makeovers at the Aladdin, sometimes to celebrities she secretly wished she could injure. She told the following story only on the condition that I wouldn't identify Paris Hilton. (I'm kidding. She didn't tell me who it was. But it has to be her.)

"I went to the penthouse and did exactly what I was asked to do," Caldwell said. "I styled her extensions and did a complete makeup. Then she looked at it and said, 'Hmm, yeah. I don't think so. Can you just do it all over again?' "

Marquez asks, much more politely, if I can make her hair straighter.

Thinking fast, I explain that the conditioner I used is thickening her hair more than she's used to.

Hairstylists aren't known for their honesty. They say "your natural blond is coming through" when you're grayer than Kansas in "The Wizard of Oz." They call your hair "delicate" when the hash browns at Denny's aren't as fried. And they tell you the wait will be only 15 minutes.

Caldwell's favorite lie is "Digging it!" It's what she says in the rare instance that she screws up.

"You don't have to tell your client," she said, "because you're confident in your ability to correct the mistake, whatever it is."

But all Marquez meant by asking for straighter hair was for me to employ the flattening iron Caldwell is already firing up.

"As soon as you get her hair dry, I can help you out with that," Caldwell says.

It's too late. I have already touched the iron to Marquez's wet locks, creating enough steam to cook Chinese vegetables.

"Digging it!" I say as storm clouds form by the light fixtures.

I crack up, forcing me to reveal myself. Caldwell grabs Marquez — who says she sensed something was "definitely wrong" — and whisks her to the shampoo station with the intensity of an ER doctor.

"I can still save it!" she proclaims.

This is Frankie Avalon's cue to tell me to wipe off that angel face and go back to high school.

Fear and Loafing appears every Monday in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures can be found at www.fearandloafing.com.