The coolest girl in Lincoln/Omaha

Eight years ago, I made an appointment at a salon chosen at random from the Lincoln phone book. I was young and broke, and hadn't had my hair cut in an entire year. I didn't care what happened to it, just that something happened to it.

When I showed up for my cut, I was greeted by a tiny girl with long dark hair. She had bleached a star over her ear. She also had thick, heavy bangs and leopard-print tattoos. I immediately trusted her to do whatever she wanted.

That visit, she gave me layers and bangs. Over the next few years she gave a few bobs and many incarnations and colors of a messy pixie cut. Every time, it worked. It wasn't too heavy. It made my fine hair look thicker. She did weird stuff sometimes -- crazy colors, asymmetrical cuts -- but she knew how much crazy I was comfortable with and worked within my personal crazy spectrum. I referred tons of friends to her, and even an extremely snobby friend conceded she was an artist as much as a stylist. And she always looked awesome in vintage dresses or shredded jeans and her ever-changing jet black hair. One of my friends began calling her "the coolest girl in Lincoln."

Then the coolest girl in Lincoln left town.

Not far, but to Omaha -- far enough that it was impractical to see her after work or even on weekends. I found someone else to cut my hair, then someone else, then someone else. Some haircuts were good or really good, and most haircuts were OK, but none were as good as hers.

Then I moved here, too.

My friend who called her the coolest girl in Lincoln had also moved to Omaha and begun referring to her as the coolest girl in Omaha. One of the first things he asked me was if I would return to her to get my hair cut.

Last night, I did.

Her hair was still jet-black, she still wore vintage dresses with tights and heels. And she gave me the best haircut I'd had probably since she moved away -- another incarnation of the messy pixie cut, similar to the way she'd cut it before.

The style, the conversation, the weirdness of remembering what someone's scissors feel like in your hair,  made me feel both more like myself and also as though I really live here now. Welcome to Omaha, haircut. I have missed you.