Catching Up With Allure: Have You Fucked Your Hairstylist Lately?

Anyone in the mood for a blow out? How about a new 'do? Perhaps some bangs? Or maybe you just need a highlight in your vagina. (Overkilled it!) Well you're in luck, because it turns out you're already paying for it.

Never one to shy away from controversy, Allure has recently exposed the unique phenomenon of women sleeping with their stylists. To plebeians like you it may seem straightforward. Perhaps you think sleeping with your stylist is the same as sleeping with your bartender or handyman or gynecologist. You'd be wrong. Aside from a chocolate fountain, an affair with your hairstylist is the most important thing missing from your life.

Take it from Alix, who likens the forbidden dance of hair cutting to tried and true seduction tactics like a boxed wine or cunnilingus.

It's like a fairytale! Woman seeking hot guy with marketable skill and no personality on which to comment finds him in the unlikeliest of places – a place where she goes monthly and pays tons of money for him to touch her head for an hour. Like the end of My Girl, I never saw that coming. Nor did Meaghan, who was starstruck by her coiffeur.

A car? Sushi? A private hair washing room that exists in an alternate reality which is in some way detached from the "real world"?! That's some Vidal Sassoon-type shit. I'm almost convinced that banging your stylist is the new black, but first I need to hear the other side of the story.

While to my untrained heart the story of a man cutting a woman's hair in the bathroom at JFK may seem so mind-numbingly idiotic and unsexy that I wish there was a way to reverse masturbate to it, clearly I never went to J school. Nor have I ever liaised with my hair stylist – though in truth it wasn't for lack of trying.

The year was 2001. I was living on my own in New York city and involved in an on-again-off-again relationship with the girl who, in the annals of my girlfriend history, would later be known as "the crazy one." For convenience sake, I always got my hair cut at the same place: a trendy, though inexpensive salon around the corner from my apartment.

While I frequented the place almost monthly, I almost never got the same stylist twice. Appointment averse, I always just walked in and took whoever was available. That is, until I the luck of the draw led me to Sandy.

Sandy was a petite blond from Australia. She was friendly, though she dressed as though she may be moonlighting as a superhero crime fighter after work – black leather pants, tanks tops, etc. She was also tough as nails, as evidenced by the fact that she cut my hair with a razor blade. When I asked why, she said scissors were boring. To this day, I have no idea what that means, but will always be impressed by a woman who finds a potentially deadly object utterly unexciting.

I began making appointments to see her, and only her, every month. We developed a rapport, and got to the point where we would "catch up" on each other's lives. I was convinced that our relationship could exist outside the salon, but was always too shy to make the proposition.

Then one day I was walking past the salon on my way to the food store and there, sitting on the sidewalk up against the salon, was Sandy. As I got closer I noticed she was crying. "This is it," I thought. "This is the perfect opportunity." I would console her and she would see past my dirty blond hair and into my soul.

The only problem was that she was on the phone. Obviously I couldn't interrupt her call, but I also couldn't run the risk of her getting off the phone and going back inside before I had the chance to make her love me with my kind words and gentle hand. I decided the thing to do was linger just far enough away that I wouldn't be noticed, but that I could keep tabs on her and swoop in (casually, of course) just as she got off the phone. So I stood on the busy sidewalk, pretending to look in the window of a shop a few doors down, which was unfortunate because it was a medical supply store. "Nothing unusual here," my casual demeanor suggested. "Just window shopping for a new walker."

Out the corner of my eye I saw Sandy start to stand up, though she was still on the phone. I was getting nervous that I would miss my window of opportunity. Then, through a crowd of people, I saw her hang up. "Go!" my mind said. "GO! GO! GO!" I moved towards the store thinking, "Am I really going to do this?" and as I got closer I thought, "There is no way I can do this." But suddenly there I was, a few feet from Sandy. I tried to make eye contact, but she wasn't looking my way. I walked slower, trying to grab her attention. Then, just as she was turning to go back in the salon, and our eyes met. I smiled; she smiled. Then, right as I was about to speak, a person walking down the sidewalk cut between us. Like that, she was gone, back on the other side of the seemingly impenetrable divide: her a stylist, me just a customer.

A few months later she moved back to Australia and the salon raised their rate for a men's haircut by $5, so I stopped going.

So yes, I know what it is like to yearn for the forbidden fruit that is one's stylist. But perhaps it's all for the best that we never got together.

And at the end of the day, any woman can lick your cow, but it takes a special woman to service your cowlick.