There was something about the long haul of lockdown that made you want to take the things you were going back and forth on, and – pardon my language –
just fucking do it already. For me, that decisive move was, at long last, getting curly bangs. It was something that my friend and hairstylist Mischa G had been begging – nay, pleading – with me to do for years, but I just hadn’t gotten around to yet (which, by the way, is never not a tragic excuse). “They’re going to change your life,” Mischa told me. And she was right.
Last autumn, feeling ready for change, I made my first trip to Treehouse Social Club, Mischa’s just-completed salon, which she had magically managed to gut, renovate and open in the middle of the pandemic. There, inside my new salon nirvana, she sheared off the old overgrowth of the pandemic and gave me a ringlet-y curtain of bangs that fell right above the brow along with a cascade of shaggy layers. My new fringe did everything a great, transformative haircut is supposed to do, like make me feel like a whole new-and-improved person, and incite