The Chelsea Set
97 Baker Street (973) 762-4200
NY Times article - May 12th, 2002
I HATE to say it, but I've been cutting hair for 40 years. I grew up in Paisley, Scotland, and I can remember when I was around 13 or 14 wanting passionately to be a hairdresser. In the early 60's, I had the biggest beehive hairdo in the world. People would stop me and ask me
how I got my beehive so high. it was totally teased. They called me the Lassie With the Lump.
After arriving in America from Scotland, I started cutting hair at Bamberger's salon in Newark. Then, in 1972, I opened my own shop, in Kearny, N.J. One day, a big white car stopped across the street and out came three gorgeous women. We all ran to the window to see where they were going. When I realized that they were coming into the shop, I yelled, "Scatter! " and we all went back to our stations, pretending that we were working.
One of the women turned out to be a client of mine. I hadn't recognized her because she was all dressed up. She introduced one of the ladies to me as Connie Francis. I said, "Gosh, you got the same name as the singer," and my friend said to me, "She is the singer, stupid." Never did I dream that Connie Francis would walk into my dinky salon. I did her hair, she liked it, and she called me the next Monday.
That was the start of a wonderful, 25-year working relationship. I traveled all over with her, to California, England, Germany, Japan. My first out-of-town gig with Connie was in Westbury on Long Island. I had gone home that night because I had little kids at the time. That was the night Connie was raped. After that, we never left Connie alone in a hotel room.
When I first opened my shop in Maplewood, in 1978, I had some nightmare clients. They were spoiled, very demanding ladies. I got an ulcer from it. They were all friends with one another, but they had a love-hate relationship.
They would erase one another's names in the appointment book, and I would end up with two 9 o'clock's on a Saturday morning. There was one who came in in a bikini; she wanted to show off her figure and make the others jealous. One lady had a friend who didn't like the fact that she brought her dog into the salon. They had a spat, and one of them threw a can of Tab on the other's head after her hair had been washed.
I put up with that for five years. Now, the people who come to my salon are friends. It's funny: When I see people around town, I'11 think of them in terms of the time slot: "There's Wednesday at 10."
You go through their lives with them. I see their kids in strollers, then they're getting married and I'm doing the hair for the wedding. All the beautiful brides I've done! When they're sitting in that chair, people feel we're safe, and they tell us everything. We are psychologists in a way.
You get a natural high from hairdressing, because there's always a new look to learn. I'm booked every half-hour, and on Thursdays I work a l2 hour day, so I'm exhausted. I never sit. I was taught that good hairdressers don't eat lunch. How's that for brainwashing?
I don't want to retire. One day, I will drop dead behind the chair. It will be a busy Saturday, and there will be a big commotion, and my staff will be telling the customers, "Libby had a heart attack."
I know what they will say: "That's terrible. But who'll do my hair?"