On Finding a Hair Stylist in Austin at 56

When My Personal Style Was Forged in an Eileen Fisher

I recently moved to Austin from Santa Fe, New Mexico, where the average age is approximately 56, the average daily wear is Eileen Fisher linen with turquoise and Birkenstocks, and the median sexual orientation is, let’s say...“fluid but artsy and osteoporotic.”

Santa Fe is a town where women over 50 run the damn show. We’re out there beading, building, hiking, teaching, healing, and casually crushing on someone who owns a wolf hybrid, met Andy Warhol and plays the didgeridoo. We age out of giving a shit. We become Gay Gray Dinosaurs—and that is not an insult. That’s a status upgrade.

Then I moved to Austin.

And tried to find a stylist.

---

I recently walked into a well-rated East Side salon and said I wanted something “classic and flattering.”

The stylist tilted their head, blinked, and basically said, “Okay, like...a rainbow shag-mullet? With some copper foils and a reverse fade? And bangs the length of your top teeth?”

NO.

I am 56. I do not want to look like I’m opening for Peso Pluma at Burning Man. I want to look like I read first-edition hardcovers, own multiple scarves, use the word “taupe,” and can teach a masterclass in boundary-setting.

Though I’m further left than Bernie and only slightly to the right of Che Guevara, my personal style was forged in a Boston Talbots, not on a vape cloud behind a pop-up tattoo booth.

I believe in shape. Softness. French bangs. A cut that says, “This woman votes, packs snacks, and maybe wrote a bestselling novel during a depressive episode.”

Not “she lives in a converted school bus and offers body glitter blessings on 6th Street.”

How I want to look versus

How Austin wants me to look

Here’s the data, y’all:

• Santa Fe’s median age? 56.3.
  It’s a city built for silver hair, shawls, and slow-roasted green chile epiphanies.

• Austin’s median age? 34.9.
  Which explains why every salon looks like it was decorated by a neurodivergent raccoon with a small ketamine budget.

Nothing against the kids. I love Gen Z. I am bisexual, and a rebel, and I foolishly once majored in jazz saxophone at Berklee College of Music. I’m even open to mild chaos (see: Relationship History et al). But what I need is a stylist who understands gravity. Gray blending. Mood stabilizers. Someone who knows the difference between “face-framing layers” and a cry for help.

---

If you know someone in Austin who can cut hair for grown-ass women, send them my way.

I will pay in praise, cookies, and possibly the rights to a short story based on your dog.

In the meantime, I’ll be deep-conditioning and emotionally detaching from my reflection. Because being and growing older in Austin is not for the weak—or anyone who remembers the O.G. mullet and would rather die than go there again.

Probably coming next:
“What Not to Say to a 56-Year-Old in a Salon Chair”
or
“Can You Get Bangs and Still Be Taken Seriously in a Crisis?”

Like this? Hate this but can’t look away? Hit that subscribe button, baby! Share the Valdesian Textacular with everyone you know.