Hair Tyrants: On the Opinionated, Outrageous, and Often Brilliant Maestros Who Control the Way We Look

As a tweenager, I used to break into a nervous sweat whenever it was time to visit Tony, the family hairdresser. An Italian-stallion kind of guy, he had a furry chest, a penchant for polyester, and a devil-may-care approach to scissor technique. Some days he would give me a perfectly horrid bowl cut. Other times he was feeling for boxy bangs. Whichever way he sliced it, the result was never what I (or my mother) asked for. Neither of us could work up the courage to confront him about it. “He’s scary,” I would whisper to Mom. “Yes, but he has the best beauty parlor in town,” she’d say.

I didn’t know it then, but Tony was my first run-in with a member of Capillus tyrannus, a capricious (and sometimes dangerous) species more commonly known as the hair tyrant. You know the type. Their cuts and color are coveted. They have formidable waiting lists. They know what’s best for your hair (and your life, too, by the way). The bottom line: They don’t need you. You need them.

The relationship between a woman and her tyrant is a sort of salon Stockholm syndrome. It’s not like she’s a pushover—on the contrary. She’s strong-willed in most other arenas, but something shifts when she sits in the tyrant’s chair. She loses her head, or at least control over it. Her new cut or color may be flawless, but maybe she didn’t want bangs. Or perhaps she was hoping to grow it all out, only to end up with a chin-length bob. She wouldn’t let a waiter force her to have lamb shank when she orders Dover sole, so why cede so much power to her hair stylist?

According to Los Angeles hairdresser Jen Atkin, “It’s like the girl who wants to date the bad boy. You’re addicted to that strong personality.” Of course, you get addicted to the tyrant’s talent, too. Kyle White, top colorist at Oscar Blandi in New York, known for his Midas touch with blondes, says his ladies will lie, cheat, and steal to keep seeing him. “One of my clients tried to convince her therapist that her highlights were psychologically necessary, in order to get them covered by insurance,” he says. White has a reputation for being intimidating, but tries not to let it get to him. “I treat getting color right like it’s a life-or-death situation; I’m not playing around,” he says. “If I wasn’t booked solid three months ahead of time, I might doubt myself. As long as I know the color is good—even if the client hates it or hates me—I can sleep at night.”

Being hooked on a hair tyrant can result in a certain degree of hairanoia. Reporting this piece, I found that few sources were prepared to go on the record for fear of reprisals. As one fashion executive put it before she politely stopped responding to my e-mails, “My hairdresser makes me furious every time I see him. Sometimes I cry. But I’d rather sell my first-born than risk the relationship.”

Monica Sierra, a jet-setting wardrobe consultant, agreed to dish about her colorist, Gina Gilbert, only after safely relocating from New York to Mexico City (the beauty-world equivalent of the witness protection program). “I wanted to cover my gray, but I didn’t want to lose my dark base,” she says. “Gina said, ‘Don’t worry; we’ll take care of it,’ and the next thing I know, I’m practically platinum.”

“I have a very specific point of view, and I tell my clients they can take it or leave it,” says Gilbert, who works at the Serge Normant salon downtown in the Meatpacking District. She refused to take Michelle Williams solid white-blonde, and also tried to talk Julianne Moore out of going golden for a role. This might seem a bit harsh, but, ultimately, you’re forking over big bucks for a top tyrant’s eye: You want someone who can take your hair to another level, or nudge you in a fresh and surprising direction.

That said, if the relationship gets testy, it helps to be armed with tyrant management skills. According to Tim Rogers, a top stylist at Sally Hershberger’s New York salons, preparation is paramount. “Hair tyrants live in a world of images, so make sure to take along pictures and references,” he says. “Be very clear on the reality of your daily life, and ask them to customize their signature cut or color for you, or implement their vision in stages.”

“Communication is key,” agrees editorial whiz Orlando Pita, who clips clients at his Orlo Salon downtown. “But I think you have to be firm with a tyrant. If he or she insists on bangs and you don’t want bangs, say ‘I’ve had them, I don’t want to deal with them, please don’t give them to me.’ ” If the two of you can’t come to terms, Pita suggests moving on: “That kind of my-way-or-the-highway treatment becomes bullying at a certain stage.”

Tyrants are naturally possessive, so two-timing them can have serious consequences. “I’m not going to lie,” says White. “I get really offended. I try not to get upset, but I do. I work so hard to get it right. They say, ‘Well, I came back,’ and I say, yeah, because your color is terrible, and now I have to fix it.”

When one fashion writer wouldn’t succumb to her star stylist’s mandate that she grow out her pixie cut into a bouncy Marilyn Monroe flip, he mulishly refused to cut her hair. “After a year of my low-maintenance pixie, I wasn’t interested in hot rollers and hair spray,” she sighs. “Now I don’t even know if we’re friends.”

The New York–based stylist Garren (the most elegant tyrant in the business) dislikes cheating for practical reasons. “Let’s say I’ve been working on someone’s hair for a while, and we are almost at our goal. She goes to another hairdresser, who inevitably says, ‘Let’s do some layers.’ All of a sudden, we’re back at square one.” Ann Acierno, a fashion consultant and designer who’s sat in Garren’s chair for 22 years, doesn’t mind being a one-stylist woman. “He has a vision for my hair and how it relates to me as a whole,” she says. “He listens to my opinions, but at the end of the day, if he says I should grow it out, I will, and if he wants me to dye it purple, I won’t hesitate. He takes great pride in his artwork, and so do I.”

Ashley Javier, a disarmingly charming despot with a private salon in Manhattan has a zero-tolerance cheating policy. “I don’t do hair hoppers,” he says. “I put so much of me into it, that if at any time you want to go somewhere else, stay there.” Javier, a favorite of socialites and starlets like Amanda Hearst, Annabelle Dexter-Jones, and Zoë Kravitz, is as much life coach as hair whisperer, and is happy to turn his girls on to the right Reiki master, masseur, or raw chef.

He’s also willing to show them the door if they don’t play by his rules. He recently opened his eponymous Parlor to “real people,” but only ones that agree to sign a contract and confidentiality agreement. “I don’t accept rudeness or lateness,” he told me over the phone. “If you make it difficult for me to like you, you make it difficult for me to make you look pretty.”

Curious to observe the ultimate hair tyrant in his natural habitat, I booked a consultation with Javier. I read over the contract, which contains clauses like “There can be no interruption in the process once it begins. Any interruption or interference will result in potential termination.” Termination? “I have no qualms about ‘resigning’ clients I can’t work with,” he says. “I always say the best way to get a new client is to get rid of an old one.”

Since my occupation often places me in the company of beauty-industry titans, I was confident I could hold my own with Javier, and vowed to stand up for my strands, should the need arise. Ten minutes into our session, he had me laughing so hard I never even saw the flash of the scissors. Before I could protest, he hacked off about four inches from the left side. I felt my stomach heave. “You have a long Florence Henderson,” Javier said, madly clipping away. “And not only that—your ends are scraggly. You look poor.” Ouch.

Next he attacked my color. “There’s no depth. It’s so monotone it’s practically a blur.” I fought back indignant tears, which didn’t go unnoticed. “At Ashley Javier Parlor, you only cry once—when you pay,” the sadistic stylist quipped, as he started painting lowlights into my hair.

No longer laughing, I slumped in the chair and stared listlessly at my phone. I couldn’t believe it. I had been captured by the very creature I’d been stalking for weeks. When I finally looked up, sometime mid–blow dry, I was amazed. My hair looked fantastic. But all I could think about was my own beloved tyrant. What if he finds out? What is his policy on cheating in the line of duty? I decided to come clean, and tell him exactly what happened . . . when it grows out.

Read Sandra Ballentine’s last Platform: In Defense of the Cat Lady.