Broken up about it

What is the "hip" term nowadays to refer to the person who does your hair? Is it hair stylist? I've always been unsure of how I'm supposed to refer to Umberto Rossetti, the "guy who does my hair." And now it doesn't matter. Because I broke up with Umberto yesterday. I broke up with him while driving home from work and I surprised myself by actually tearing up over it while stopped in traffic on 93 South.

Umberto has been cutting my hair every five to eight weeks for nearly seven years. Umberto is the one who gently told me that my home coloring job was a mess and encouraged me to get my color done professionally. I was part of the transition to Umberto being someone who rented a chair in a Somerville salon institution to becoming a small business owner. Every time I go to his salon, which he owns with his cousin Carlo, I feel beautiful. I have been known to go to the salon 30 minutes early just to sit and read magazines and relax amidst the banter.

Between my recent move to an oceanside suburb about 20 miles south of my old stomping grounds in Somerville, MA, the hectic pace of my job, and the wild success of Umberto's salon, I cannot make an appointment time work for me. It take nearly two hours to do my hair - 45 minutes for the color (rich heather) and another 45 minutes for the cut and styling and 15-20 minutes of waiting and other silliness. I don't want to be in Somerville for another 2 hours after the work day ends. I cannot justify taking two hours off (or even two 1 hour periods off) in the middle of the day, and I don't want to go back to Somerville on the weekend. I'm stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

So, yesterday I went to Deja Vu in Hingham (recommended by BMG's not particularly dowdy mom and his hip suburban sister-in-law) and booked two appointments - one for a color and one for a cut. And now it feels like I'm dating again. This is like a hands-on interview to learn if Robin and Sarah can possibly give me the experience of feeling beautiful and relaxed while in the chair. If not, I'll have to go back to Umberto with evidence of my cheating on him emblazoned upon my head, asking for forgiveness.