For Marie

“Enchantée! Je viens d’Haiti. I am from Haiti,” she said and warmly clasped my hands in hers.

As with most of the best people and experiences I’ve ever known, Marie had entered my life entirely by chance.

I’m still not quite sure what it was that had compelled me to choose that particular place. For one, it was part of a chain with an inconsistent reputation. But after a few frustrating and downright near-disastrous encounters at other, carefully selected and often highly recommended establishments, one could probably say that I was bordering on desperation. And desperation? That is never a good state to be in, but especially not when making potentially appearance-altering decisions.

But one day I looked up the number in the phone book and made the call. Since I had never been there before, I obviously did not know who to make my appointment with. “Well, Marie has an opening,” I was told by the voice on the phone.

And that’s how the lovely and sweet Haitian woman became my hairdresser for about eight of the more than nine years that I lived in the United States.

Before meeting her, my knowledge of her home island had been embarrassingly scant. Yes, I at least knew where to locate it on a map. I also knew the name of the capital, Port-au-Prince. I knew that Haitians speak Creole and that they are generally poverty-stricken – to put it mildly. Hearing the name “Haiti” immediately conjured up all the stereo-typical associations about Voodoo and Black Magic. I was vaguely aware of a volatile political history, a succession of violent coups d’état leading to a revolving-door of dictators – each trying his best to outdo his predecessors by practicing an even bloodier reign of terror. 

I admitted my ignorance to her and always nagged her to tell me more about her homeland. She graciously obliged. While she performed her incredible artistry and magic on my hair (I secretly referred to it as my “Voodoo Hairdo” – yes, alas, I have always been extremely lame), she patiently answered my endless barrage of questions. I learned that she was married and that, although her husband and children were all in the States as well, all of her immediate and extended family still lived in Haiti.

Apart from being an amazingly talented stylist (seriously, she’s one of the very few hairdressers in the world with the ability to whip my thick, stubborn mane into sleek and shiny submission), she was always incredibly kind and sweet to me. As someone who had also been through the arduous and soul-destroying process of having to deal with U.S. immigration, she understood the hell that I was going through in my quest to obtain a Green Card. With her own family still back in Haiti, she knew exactly how torn between two worlds I was. She knew how I pined for my family. As the years went by, she was one of the first people to notice the depression that was slowly pulling me under. She would say: “I know how much you want this. Although I do not want you to give up, I think sometimes you have to let go for your own health and sanity.”

Yes, like all the best hairdressers and bartenders in the world, she’s a gifted lay psychologist. At each of our meetings, she patiently and attentively listened to my incessant chattering and even pretended to laugh at my lame jokes. Sometimes she even tried to rescue me from myself in ways that had nothing to do with my hair.

One day I arrived at the salon for my regular appointment with her. She was running a bit late, so after greeting me with her usual, cheerful: “Bonjour, Red!”, I took a seat in the waiting area and spoke to the new receptionist. The girl was utterly gorgeous: all elongated limbs; long, lustrous hair; full lips and sculpted cheekbones. I kept on fawning over her, telling her – no, INSISTING – that she should be a model. (Not embarrassing the poor girl at all, of course!)

When Marie came to greet me, I was still at it, predicting the girl’s future as a super model. So naturally I dragged Marie into the conversation as well. “Marie, tell this lovely girl that she should definitely be a model! Don’t you think so too? She’s seriously stunning…” I was still going on and on about it in full ear-shot of the entire salon as I followed Marie to the chair.

Marie simply smiled and nodded. “How would you like me to cut your hair today?” she asked, and as she leaned towards her station to pick up a brush, she whispered in my ear: “Red. That girl? Ees actually a MAN!” When she glimpsed my shocked face in the mirror, she grinned. Throughout the rest of my appointment that day, I kept on shaking my head in disbelief and muttering: “Naaah. It CAN’T be. REALLY?” All the other stylists laughed at me for months afterwards. “Hey, Red! How are you? Is your life still a drag?”

At least once a year, Marie took time off to go and visit her family in Haiti. Instead of going to another stylist, I would patiently wait for her to return – even if it meant that I ended up looking like a cross between Rapunzel and Cousin Itt from the Addams Family.

The sad thing is, when I finally did let go of my American Dream (although, for the ‘sake of full disclosure, it would be more accurate to say that my hand was forced and that my fingers were pried loose by someone else), things happened so fast, I never even had the chance to go and say goodbye to her and get her snail mail or e-mail address in order to stay in touch. It is something that I will forever regret.

She’s been in my thoughts often over the years. When news of the catastrophic earthquake in Haiti on 12 January spread around the globe, my thoughts immediately turned to her. I have been frantically worried about her, wondering whether she has lost any friends or relatives in the quake. It has also occurred to me that she may even have been there herself when it happened… I sincerely hope not.

I’ve tried to find her online in order to make contact again, to let her know that I’m thinking about her and to find out if she’s okay; but searches of her name have only revealed the name of the salon (no e-mail address) and numerous glowing reviews praising her skill as a stylist. I’ve finally asked a friend who still lives in the area to please phone the salon and give Marie a message from me. I know it probably seems a bit strange (is it?) but what else am I to do in order to reach out to her?