The Kindest Cut: Intuitive Life Lessons Learned by a Hollywood Hairstylist (Vol. 1)

By Emanuel Millar

At just 10 years old, Emanuel embarked on an extraordinary journey, armed with scissors and determination, as he began cutting his own hair. After three attempts, he gained the trust of his older brother, who offered his own hair for Emanuel's budding talent. This humble start soon blossomed into a neighborhood phenomenon, with Emanuel becoming the go-to hairstylist for family and friends.

Upon graduating high school, Emanuel's commitment to his craft led him to enroll in Marinello Beauty College. After successfully completing beauty school, he wasted no time and, within a year, opened 'Manny's Hairstyling' on Painter Avenue in Whittier, California. However, a profound desire for more significant horizons beckoned.

By the age of 24, Emanuel Millar made a life-changing decision – he closed the doors of his thriving salon and embarked on a daring adventure to Hollywood. His goal? To realize his dream of becoming a part of the dynamic film industry.

With over four decades of rich experience in the film industry, Emanuel Millar emerged as a highly sought-after hairdresser, serving as the personal hairstylist to iconic figures such as Bill Murray, Angelina Jolie, Cate Blanchett, Tom Hanks, Johnny Depp, and Brad Pitt. He collaborated with revered directors, including James Cameron, Brian DePalma, Wes Anderson, Quentin Tarantino, Garry Marshall, Mike Nichols, Sam Raimi, Ron Howard, and Michael Mann, playing a pivotal role as the head of the hair department on legendary films like 'Kill Bill,' 'Cinderella Man,' 'Public Enemies,' and 'Inglourious Basterds.'

Following an early retirement, Millar ventured into producing and directing, commencing with his role as a producer for the feature film 'Counterpunch.' Today, he remains steadfast in his commitment to bringing his own screenplays to life, leaving an enduring impact on the world of cinema.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350927382

Emanuel Millar

Emanuel Millar, originally hailing from Reedley, California, was raised in the vibrant landscape of Southern California. His journey into the world of hairstyling began at the age of 10 when he started cutting the hair of family and friends in his parents' backyard. After graduating from El Rancho High in Pico Rivera, he took a leap of faith by opening his own salon at the young age of 19. Remarkably, by the age of 24, he took another daring step, closing his thriving salon to chase his Hollywood dreams. At 26, Emanuel embraced marriage, and by the age of 30, he was a proud parent to three children. With an illustrious career spanning over four decades in the film industry, Emanuel Millar's skills and artistry were highly sought-after. He served as the personal hairstylist to an array of Hollywood icons and collaborated with esteemed directors on groundbreaking films. Embracing an early retirement, Millar shifted his focus to producing and directing, marking the beginning of a new creative chapter. His journey continues as he passionately brings his screenplays to life, leaving an enduring impact on the world of cinema.

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The Kindest Cut

Intuitive Life Lessons Learned by a Hollywood Hairstylist (Vol. 1)

©2023 Emanuel Millar

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 979-8-35092-737-5

ebook ISBN: 979-8-35092-738-2

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

QUOTES:

You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.

Anne Lamott

There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.

Ernest Hemingway

Although I am typically a loner in daily life, my consciousness of belonging to the invisible community of those who strive for truth, beauty and justice has preserved me from feeling isolated.

Albert Einstein

Dedication:

To my best friend, and an extremely talented actor, Kyle Colton. You came into my life at a time when I needed a true and loyal friend the most. Someone I could finally rely on. Thank you for changing my life for the better.

To all those who encouraged me with, You can, and you are unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Thank you. To everyone who lamented you’re only dreaming. Thank you. Your lack of faith in me only inspired me to persevere further.

Last, but by no means least, to God, Whom without I am nothing.

PROLOGUE

Over the course of my life, due to miraculous experiences, I’ve learned to trust God. Sweet and simple. To me, profound.

I believe God guides us all. It is our choice to follow, ignore, or rebel. The beauty of Free Will.

With God in mind is how I wrote this book. Sharing stories that throughout my life have stayed with me as clear as if they happened yesterday. Moments that have helped me have a better understanding of humanity. More so than if I would have chosen to shut down or walk away. I told myself do not fabricate, sensationalize, or exaggerate anything. Write them the way they happened and deal with whatever consequences it brings. My stories are not meant to hurt, out, or offend anyone. My hope in sharing is to help anyone who might have gone through a similar experience and by reading mine, see theirs in a different way to learn from.

The main message I’d like to leave is: SPEAK UP. Do not ever be afraid. Especially of people who have money, fame, or a false sense of power they think they are entitled to because of the position God so graciously put them in. We all have a life to live. To see what we can make of it. It’s not anyone’s place to tell us how to live that life, no matter how self-important they’ve convinced themselves or allowed others to convince them, they are. I have never wanted to live anyone else’s life other than my own.

CHAPTER ONE

I started cutting hair when I was ten years old. Even though it was on my own head, I still consider it how I got started. Finding a pair of my mom’s haircutting scissors, I locked myself in the only bathroom of our one-story ranch house in Pico Rivera, California, and took a go at my thick, dark brown hair. After a few snips on top, I could already see I cut the hair too short. Turning my head as far right as I could and then as far left, I got to the sides and back. I kept telling myself, ‘This was going to be better than my mom’s haircuts. Using an old electric clipper that made a loud ‘Clunk’ sound when she turned it on. I hated the way she folded the tops of my ears down to avoid nicking them.

While checking my finished work in the mirror, it was hard not to notice my hair at the very top stuck up like bird feathers. Note to self: Don’t hold the scissors so close to your head next time. Cut above the comb. Not below it.

When my mother saw it, the first words out of her mouth were, You’re going to wear it to school like that! I said, OK and walked away. I knew it looked bad. I didn’t care. I was proud of what I had accomplished on my own.

Yes, kids at school were going to make fun of me. But by now I had gotten used to it. From the time I started kindergarten, I was singled out as the kid to tease or bully. I was always the tallest kid in class. My two front teeth were brown from rot. When those fell out, my new set of front teeth grew sticking out.

In fifth grade I got braces. Soon after, head gear. Making me look like I had a spaceship orbiting around my head. I wore glasses. I had big feet. Knock knees. I should have just worn a sign that read ‘kick me’. One thing I knew, mostly due to the fact that I was constantly reminded by other kids daily: I was different. Cutting my own hair was something I had to do as a way of taking charge of my own destiny.

To any person going through or has gone through any type of bullying, I’m sorry. I support you. Trust me. I know it’s not easy. When all you want to do is fit in. Or be left alone. But certain people feel it is their to duty go after you. It took a while, but I eventually learned, bullies bully because they are either jealous of you or bullied themselves. ‘I’ll make you feel bad about yourself to make up for how bad I feel about myself’. It’s not a good feeling to struggle alone.

I wish I understood it then as clearly as I do now. The Who or what hurt you so badly that you in turn feel justified in hurting others?

It took two more attempts at cutting my own hair before my mother said, I give up. One day my oldest brother said, Why don’t you cut my hair?

Thank you, Louie, for willing to be my first guinea pig. I mean client. Cutting his hair, I learned was much easier than cutting my own. My two other brothers, Marko and Sammy followed after that.

One day my father, who had gone to the same barber for years, asked if I would cut his hair. My first adult client. It was my mother who suggested it to him. She still hadn’t let me cut her hair. I know it was because she was afraid, I’d mess it up. Telling my father to give me a try, I thought was her way of encouraging my haircutting without letting me know she approved. Or help me believe I might have a talent for it. Oh, how some parents can mess up their child’s mind for fear of thinking that child will become full of themselves. Why tell a child they might be good at something. Let them discover it on their own. If I had a dollar….

My brothers were the ones who did the boasting of my developing haircutting skills. First to our relatives and then their friends. It became normal for someone visiting us on the weekend to join me under the huge avocado tree in our backyard where I did most of my cutting, and leave with a new do.

One day during my 7th grade Spanish class, I found myself leaning over and telling, Andy Ortiz, I could cut his hair after school if he wanted. It was the first time I found the courage to talk to someone on my own about hair cutting. Especially a classmate. It being junior high school. A combination of three elementary schools. There were new faces in the mix. Kids who didn’t know I was the kid to make fun of. I had a fighting chance before the teasing commenced. It was inevitable. I was the only kid in school that wore a corduroy sport coat with leather patches on the elbows. A coat I begged my mother to buy me at the local May Company department store in Whittier. And tan leather dress shoes. I loved the look. Other kids, not so much. Andy seemed like the kind of kid that wouldn’t make fun of me. Looking like a bit of a nerd himself. Sorry Andy. That day after school, he happily followed me home.

As I was cutting Andy’s hair under the avocado tree, my mother came home from work. While she was making dinner, she saw from the kitchen window Andy touching his hair as he was walking out the side gate. When I walked in the back door, my mother shouted, Stop cutting kids’ hair when I’m at work. If I get a call from an angry mother, you’re going to deal with it!

Possibly thinking it was fine for me to cut my brothers, father, and cousins’ hair because they wouldn’t sue. But cutting kids she didn’t know. A line had to be drawn.

An hour later, while doing my homework at the kitchen table, the phone rang. My mother answered. It was Mrs. Ortiz. After a few seconds my mother said,

He’s right here…

She held the phone receiver out with a look on her face that said, See? I told you.

I got up from the kitchen table and walked down the long galley kitchen, the rotary wall phone with a long yellow curly cord attached to the receiver that never seemed to return to its original shape after being stretched out so often. As I was walking, feeling like a prisoner on his way to his sentencing, I was thinking; Andy told me he liked his hair before he left.

I took the phone receiver from my mother’s hand and stepped into the dining room. If I was going to get chewed out, I wanted privacy. I could see my mother pretending not to listen while standing at the kitchen counter rolling tortillas on a wooden cutting board covered in flour. Using a metal pipe my father cut for her to use as a rolling pin. Flipping each tortilla on the hot grill after finishing one and starting another. It was a tradition she did every night for my father and us. My mom’s homemade tortillas were amazing. Hot off the grill, slathered with butter or sour cream. Then rolled up. Delicious! Thank you, mom!

Being the shy kid I was, I hardly said anything to Mrs. Ortiz other than, Uh-huh, yeah, uh-huh; okay… okay. Bye.

As soon as I hung up, I heard my mother’s sharp tone. One I had gotten used to when she was either angry or concerned for one of her kid’s safety. Her son had just been chewed out by a woman she didn’t know. I could feel her mother bear instincts at full alert. No one yells at my cub, even if he did mess up your kid’s hair.

What did she say?

With no excitement in my voice, mostly because I was still trying to process what Mrs Ortiz just asked.

She wanted to know if I could cut her hair after school tomorrow.

The look of disbelief on my mother’s face was priceless. It has been burnt into my memory banks.

I walked back down that long galley kitchen to the table where my homework was waiting to be finished.

I’ve often remembered that moment as one that has taught me the importance of following my intuition. Like I did the day I felt to cut my own hair. By courageously following through, I had no idea where it was going to take me.

I know you only wanted to protect me, Mom. That’s what most mothers do for their children. But even then, I felt I had a destiny to follow with this hair cutting thing. Something bigger that you couldn’t stop no matter how much you were worried for me. A stranger wanted me to come to her home and cut her hair, after seeing my work! After the hell I went through at school, please, let me have this. It might be a way to make up for the pain.

My mother didn’t say another word. While I sat doing my homework I was thinking, ‘I might be more talented than my mother thinks I am.

I cut Mrs. Ortiz’s hair in her kitchen at her Formica table. Something out of the 1950s that pulled apart for an insert when you wanted to make it longer. A four- inch chrome border wrapped around the edge. Six red vinyl chairs were tucked around it. Mrs. Ortiz pulled one out to sit on. Funny, the things we remember.

Mrs. Ortiz did not speak English very well. Nor did I speak Spanish. Even though I’m Latino. My parents spoke it fluently yet didn’t teach us. It’s a regret I carry. Mrs. Ortiz used her hands to describe how she likes her hair short and layered. When I finished, she went into the bathroom.

When she returned, she handed me ten dollars then flashed a huge smile as she ran her hands through her new cut, just like Andy did the day before. I looked at the ten-dollar bill, and thought, ‘You’re paying me? I was doing it for free. I wasn’t expecting money! Up until then, no one had given me money or even offered. I was doing it for the learning experience.

In the next few weeks, Mrs. Ortiz spread word to her friends and neighbors. They kept me busy almost daily after school and on the weekends, for the next few years. I was loving how my skill improved with every haircut. More than the money I was making, it was the adult interaction, though I didn’t know it at the time, that I was benefitting from the most. Helping me overcome my shyness and develop people-skills. Forget the kids at school who didn’t include me. I was working with adults who loved me. Or at least loved how I made them look.

In tenth grade I started high school with the usual bullying and name calling that September. That November, I left school because I had to have extensive jaw surgery to correct my lower bite that caused me to look like I had buck teeth. I was out of school until mid-May. My jaw was wired shut for nearly seven months. I didn’t mind because I was home-schooled by a teacher named Caroline Baker. Not only was she pretty. She seemed to like teaching me. I finally had something to look forward to when it came to school. Through a weak looking jaw, God had given me a reprieve. With my jaw wired shut, I was only able to eat liquids using a syringe. I lost forty pounds. My grades were never better.

When it came time for me to go back to school, I had no idea how drastically my life would change. It was the first-time kids looked at me in a good way. As if by magic, I was no longer called Goofy. There were still a few diehards from grade and middle school. Russell Peña and Eugene Mendez, the two worst. Because my jaw was still healing, I couldn’t play contact sports. Even though I had a doctor’s note, it seemed to piss off the coach. Enough so that he had me pass out towels in the locker room for two gym classes. I felt it was his way of showing me he was not going to let me, or a doctor tell him how to teach. A threatened ego I thought.

Standing in a gray metal caged room fully dressed while boys came up to me one by one after showering, once again put a target on my back.

One day I saw Russell staring me down from in the shower room. He kept staring as he walked up to the towel cage. When he got to the window he said, What are you looking at, faggot while staring me directly in the eyes. I could tell by the look on his face, as he stood there wet and naked, he was completely vulnerable. And that he could see by the look on my face, I was no longer afraid of him. I looked at him feeling genuinely sorry for the person he was. It was as though he read my mind, and his only recourse was to spit in my face. Which he did. It reminded me of what a frightened animal might do when it’s cornered. I’ve never forgotten the humiliation I felt. But after that, Russell or Eugene never bothered me again. Even though I was spit on, I gained a strength that day that I’ve carried with me till today. If you’re reading this Russell, I hope you’ve grown out of being an ass. And that you haven’t passed on bullying to your children, who might be doing the same to someone else’s child.

By senior year, I had enough confidence to approach two girls I used to see walking around campus, in what looked like nurse’s uniforms. I found out they went to school the first half of their day, and attended Marinello Beauty College the second half. They were working at getting their cosmetology license a few months after graduation. Every time I saw Anita or Teresa, I asked them hair cutting questions.

When you hold the hair while cutting at this angle, what effect will you get?

How do you layer long hair without cutting off the length?

What happens if you pull the hair all the way up and cut?

Whenever they’d show me something new, as soon as I got home, I’d try my second-hand beauty college course on someone.

Because I was relentless with questions, I quickly wore out my welcome, especially with Teresa. When she’d see me coming, she’d turn and run. Sorry about that, ladies. You were the only two people who could quench my thirst for haircutting knowledge. Thank you for everything you patiently shared. I still am forever grateful.

As much as I loved cutting hair, I couldn’t see myself attending a place called Marinello Beauty College. I didn’t see myself ever becoming a licensed hairdresser.

A month after graduation, my cousin Irma who was working at Occidental Life Insurance in downtown Los Angeles, got me a job working in the mailroom. I felt so important going to work in a shirt and tie. I had a real grown-up job.

After a month of running checks through an automatic stamp machine that jammed up at least three times a day, I took on the pressure of feeling personally responsible for holding up what I imagine were desperate people waiting for their money. Especially after one day moving the stamp machine away from the wall, and finding envelopes with checks that were spit out weeks and sometimes months before. When I brought this to my mailroom supervisor, he told me I was making everyone else look bad by working so efficiently. On a Friday at the end of the day, I announced to my mailroom co-workers, a shirt-and-tie, 9-to-5, was not for me.

That same day I came home and told my mother, I can’t do this anymore. I don’t like wearing a shirt and tie. It’s not me!

As she was rolling tortillas, she said,

Why don’t you go to beauty college?

When I heard her say it I thought, ‘What!! You of all people are saying I SHOULD go to BEAUTY COLLEGE??!!

I was shocked. My mom still hadn’t let me cut her hair. But as soon as she said it, it felt right. Thank you, Mom for changing the course of my life that night. Whether she knew it or not, she gave me the courage to go after what I didn’t know I wanted but was most passionate about.

My mother could be a worrier. She was the person who taught me to believe in God. To always trust God. To think positive no matter what. Even if she many times put worry before faith. Especially when it came to her children.

CHAPTER TWO

I’ve always loved learning new things. Especially when it came to my mental growth and spiritual evolution. With my mother’s words, Why don’t you go to beauty college? still ringing in my ears, I drove to Downey and enrolled in Marinello Beauty College.

Marinello was in the same mall as Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour, where I worked all through high school. I loved that job. I started as a dishwasher, bypassed working in the kitchen as a cook and jumped to the fountain, where I got to make sundaes and other delicious ice cream creations. When one of the managers saw how friendly I was with the customers; making it about them instead of trying to fit in with my co-workers (something being shunned in school helped me with), he promoted me to waiter ahead of more experienced employees who wanted that position. Once again, I couldn’t help but feel God was preparing my people skills. Sixteen and dealing with an array of personalities.

I believe God puts us in situations to learn from. This seemed to be something I was becoming aware of more and more. I may not have known where I was going, but hung onto the feeling that I was going to get there. I liked having the awareness that every situation I was put in was for a reason and to pay attention and learn from it. ‘Just keep going,’ I’d often tell myself. I wanted to see all the great cities of the world.

When I was six. We were still living in La Puente. An older childless couple moved in next door to us at 604 Radway Ave. Dave and Lupe Salazar. After spending a few days talking with Lupe, one day she asked my mother if I, not my brothers or sister, just me, could come over and keep her company while Dave, who was a long-distance truck driver, was away.

As soon as my mother told me, Lupe wants to know if you would like to go over to her house for dinner.

Even at six, I knew this was a gift. I could escape a house filled with three brothers who seemed to always be fighting and yelling over toys and the TV. Yes, I wanted to go to a quiet house and have a calm dinner with a nice lady who really seemed to like me, in spite of my brown front teeth. Plus, Lupe and Dave’s house was always tidy, and every room smelled nice.

I still remember my dinners with Lupe like it was yesterday. Everything seemed so elegant compared to what I had gotten used to at home. The modern, all-white furniture on white carpet. Sheer full-length white curtains on the sliding glass door windows that led out to the swimming pool. White tiled kitchen floors with black grout between. Lots of light streaming through onto the all-white cabinets. Lupe’s house was the type of house I wanted to live in someday. Everything in its place. Dishes, cups, glasses, and silverware that matched. The polar opposite of what I had never gotten used to at my parent’s house that was right next door, but Lupe’s made it feel a world away.

Lupe was the first person who taught me how to properly use a knife and fork. The first time I dined on fine china. And how to place a cloth napkin on my lap. She taught me manners I used throughout my life. Not to say my mother didn’t. But with four other children, she might not have been able to find the time like Lupe had with me. I might have been young, but I was grateful and willing to learn.

Lupe and I would sit at her round, single-stem-based white Formica table. The kind I’d later see on the cover of Better Homes and Garden magazine. In her formal dining room across from one another, no television on, so she could hear all about my day. Just me talking and her listening.

I never told Lupe how kids in school made fun of me but somehow, I think she must have known to single me out. She made me feel like I was the most handsome and sophisticated child she had ever met. It was as if Lupe felt it was up to her to prepare me for the life I was going to be living in the future.

After months of lovely meals and a few sleep overs in Lupe’s all white guest room. Where she’d tuck me in at night and give me a kiss on the forehead. Lupe and Dave came to our house to ask my mother and father if they could adopt me.

My mother didn’t tell me the reason then. All she said was I wouldn’t be going over Lupe and Dave’s anymore. A few weeks later she told me. The first thing I thought was: Someone really likes me.

I don’t know what Lupe and Dave were thinking when they thought it would be fine to ask the parents of five children if they could have one of them. Maybe: You’ll still have four kids left. Plus, the one we want will be living right next door.

I’ll always remember how good you were to me, Lupe. How much you taught me. Thank you for loving me the way you did. My time with you helped me believe there’d be other people who’d get my quirky ways and love me for it. That I didn’t need to solely depend on my family or relatives for love or acceptance. You confirmed that people could love me for being me and not because they had to.

Lupe taught me there was more to life than being made fun of at school. Fighting with my brothers. Holding my feelings in because no one cared what I thought. Thank you, Lupe, for starting the wheels in my brain to turn toward the notion that I had an opinion that might be valid.

Recognizing the value in learning from adults at an early age served me well with a few of my teachers. Mrs. Helen, my third-grade teacher who taught me kindness and patience. Mrs. Heinz, my seventh-grade math teacher who I think knew I was tormented by kids, let me sit in her class and enjoy my lunch in peace. Mrs. Compton, my eighth grade and nineth grade English teacher who taught me the value in being well-spoken. In retrospect, I owe every kid who ignored me or made fun of me, for driving me to learn from teachers instead of wasting time trying to make friends. It was some teachers I learned to trust more than my peers.

It didn’t surprise me when Mrs. Archer, one of the main instructors at Marinello Beauty College, took a liking to me and took me under her wing. Tall and skinny. A bird-like looking woman, short hair; a chain-smoker, past retirement age. Mrs. Archer’s teaching sounded more like angry yelling. I was used to it from my mother and Mrs. Compton. I wanted to learn. The younger students were either afraid of her or made fun of her. Thank God I could see the passion she had for hair styling. And I believe she mine.

One day, Mrs. Archer pulled me aside, with a cigarette dangling from her mouth she snapped, Learn everything you can. Perms, color, curling, setting, etc. It will help you down the road. Do you know how to use a Marcel Iron?

As smoke billowed around her head, I had no idea what she was talking about. A Marcel what?

No.

Mrs. Archer waved her lit cigarette over her head as if dismissing the other students, All these young kids only want to learn hair cutting and blow-drying. It’s going to take a lot more than that to get anywhere. I’ll teach you how to Marcel hair, if you’re willing to learn.

I was. And she did. Mrs. Archer’s instruction on how to Marcel hair using a small hot oven and metal curling irons, that heat up in that little oven, became invaluable knowledge I would use again and again throughout my career. Thank you, Mrs. Archer. I hope they let you smoke in Heaven. You seemed to love it so.

After a few months of studying at the Marinello in Downey, Anita and Teresa told me they were transferring to the Marinello in Whittier, California, because they heard it was a better school.

After almost two years of attending classes here with only six months away from graduating, you guys are leaving?

Never one to be a follower, I struggled to reconcile with their decision and whether I should do the same. Ultimately, I decided to join them. Mostly because ‘Marinello’ in Whittier was closer to my parents’ house, where I was still living. And closer to the Albertson’s Grocery Store in Montebello where I worked at night and on weekends, bagging groceries and collecting shopping carts. When you are young, you don’t think about getting tired. At least I didn’t. I was working toward my dream.

As I was saying goodbye to Mrs. Archer, I cautiously hugged her for fear of breaking her in half. She gave me a non-committal hug without removing the cigarette from her lips. And with that, I left Downey and never looked back. Mrs. Archer pops into my thoughts more often than I thought she would. It was hard to tell through the cloud of smoke billowing around her, but I thought I saw a tear in her eye as she waved goodbye. She seemed genuinely sad. I know I was. It’s interesting the people that are put into our lives that help shape who we become. Especially those that stay with us in thought.

Leaving that first Marinello began a trait I’ve since adopted and quite enjoy. When it’s time to go, it’s time to go. Move on with no regrets.

The second Marinello was in uptown Whittier, on Greenleaf Avenue. New instructors, new students, and bright pink walls made it a happier place than Downey Marinello, with its pale blue walls reminiscent of a hospital.

With only four months left to finish, my workstation was moved to the front of the school. ‘The Style Bar,’ consisted of eight chairs, four on each side of the reception desk. Students were put there to show off their work. If customers liked what they saw while waiting in the front waiting area, they could pay a few more dollars for someone on Style Bar. Rather than get stuck with a less qualified student in the back. Word got around fast that I gave a great haircut. I quickly built a repeat clientele. Everyone who sat in my chair, I would tell I’m going to open my own salon after I graduated.

A month before my big day, one of my instructors, Carolyn Kesler, pulled me into her office.

You’ve been running around here for months telling everyone you’re going to open your own salon. I would not be doing my job if I didn’t give you the cold hard facts. It is going to take you at least eight to ten years to build up a clientele. And if you’re lucky, maybe half of them will follow you. After opening that salon, it’s going to fail. And when it does, it’s going to take another two years, minimum, to try it again.

As I stood there listening to Ms. Kesler, with her bright orange dyed hair worn in a style that resembled Ronald McDonald, I was mesmerized by the way her overly bright red lipstick lips moved while she talked. And wondering if she knew how much lipstick was on her teeth. I was hearing what she was telling me, but at the same time distracted by her sitting behind a large fake-wood-desk that dwarfed her frail body. The wall-to-wall bright pink shag carpet made the room feel like a whorehouse, speaking to the Madam. I was trying to focus on what she was saying because I knew she was believing it as a truth to help me, but I couldn’t help wondering if when she took her lipstick off at night, her lips stayed permanently stained.

God bless you, Ms. Kesler. I know you meant well, in your stained uniforms. The black mole penciled on your right cheek. The makeup foundation that was far too light for anyone unless they were a geisha. Ms. Kesler looked like a human Pez dispenser. I mean that with love, Carolyn, wherever you are.

That’s not how it’s gonna go. You can’t just graduate and open your own salon. When she finished, she lifted her boney chin, straightened her back, stuck out her flat chest that barely made dents in her floral pattern uniform top. She seemed more than pleased with herself for setting me straight.

Because I was so fond of Ms. Kesler, I thanked her. Not letting her know that her advice had gone in one ear and out the other. And that I was thinking ‘that may be how your life has gone; it doesn’t mean that’s how mine is going to be’.

She pointed to the door with one of her overly long red fingernails, instructing me to get back to the style bar.

The day after I graduated, I headed back to Downey to work in a salon that Teresa and Anita found jobs. A month later, I quit. I knew it was not the right place for me to be working if I was going to open my own salon soon. Two days before quitting, I heard a customer talking about a men’s only hair salon in West Covina, looking for a hairstylist who could do women’s haircuts.

The owner was a man named Tony, who was twenty years older than me. My first impression of him was ‘he’s a big talker.’ I saw how extremely engaging he was with his clients. But while he was interviewing me, that friendly demeanor vanished and only reappeared when another customer walked in the front door.

With his overly blow-dried Disco hair. Way too much hairspray. Far too powerful cologne. Open shirt unbuttoned half-way down to show off his mounds of chest hair, with a thick gold chain around his neck that laid on the chest hair. Completing the ensemble were the tightest pair of Angel Flight pants I had ever seen on a man. Tony might have thought he was, but to me looked more like a less handsome version of John Travolta in the opening scene in Saturday Night Fever.

Tony’s salon on West Covina Boulevard was a drastic change from the yellow walls of the salon I had just left. The décor, at the time, was considered very stylish. Geared towards a man’s taste, it had dark blue wallpaper, heavy wood molding, and a dark red leather tufted sofa in the waiting area. Only two workstations, with black porcelain shampoo sinks, were right next to each other separated by a window cutout. No women in hair rollers sitting under dryers, expecting their hair to be teased and sprayed into a style that lasted a week.

Once I got to know Tony, I began to like him. Even though I could see he thought he was God’s gift to women. Whenever a woman walked in to ask if the salon cut women’s hair, I noticed the way Tony thrust the obvious bulge in his Angel Flight pants forward. Up until Tony hired me, not very many women stepped into his salon, unless they were there waiting for their husband or boyfriend.

I learned a lot from Tony about men’s barbering. Again, every situation can be a learning one. I frequently complimented his work and asked questions because I was eager to expand my skills. I’d also catch him watching me cut women’s hair. At first, he was very complimentary after the customer left. But that seemed to change after a couple of weeks. It felt as though Tony had too much pride and large an ego, him being older, and the salon owner, to admit he could learn from a nineteen-year-old fresh out of a beauty college. I found it odd, considering how upfront he was in the beginning about hiring me to cut women’s hair because he didn’t know how. And didn’t like telling his male clients that, when they asked about him cutting their wives’ or girlfriends’ hair.

After only two months, Tony realized I had to go when one of his clients casually chimed before leaving, Oh, if you’re too busy next time, Tony, Manny can cut me.

Tony had no hesitation in telling me that Friday night, It’s not working out.

I didn’t feel as bad as I thought I would. As I drove away, I thought: Was I just fired for being good? Or making my boss look bad?

Letting me go was a blessing. Tony did not know he was pushing me toward my future. My goal wasn’t to play second fiddle to a salon owner who was intimidated by me and my work. I was still in pursuit of my own salon. The rearing of one man’s ego can become the reasoning of another man’s gain.

I drove straight back to Marinello Beauty College that Friday, feeling more determined than ever. I walked through the front door like the ‘Style Bar’ star I once was, went directly up to Ms. Kesler and asked if I could speak with her in the ‘pink-shag-carpeted’ office. Looking at me a bit surprised after telling her I had just been fired. She told me to go in and wait.

As I waited for Ms. Kesler to finish up with a student, I watched people pass by the school on Greenleaf Avenue like I had so many times in the recent past. Even though I had graduated only a few months before it seemed like years because of how much I felt I had grown from experience. When Ms. Kesler finally walked in and sat behind the oversized for the room fake-wood desk, I blurted out,

I still want to open my own salon.

Rolling her eyes like my mother when she saw I’d cut my own hair for the third time, Carolyn leaned back in her chair, opened the top desk drawer, pulled out a business card and handed it to me. With the card ready at hand. It was if she had been waiting for this day.

This man Blaine has a big women’s beauty salon on Painter Avenue. I hear he wants to open a men’s salon. Go see him.

Thank you, Ms. Kesler.

I took that card and drove directly to Painter Avenue. I met Blaine and his lovely wife Shirley. They were an older couple—almost everyone was older than me—these two could have been my grandparents. After a brief conversation in the back office, Blaine walked me out to his back parking lot and explained his vision. He was going to break ground soon and build a mini strip mall with five units. One of them was going to be a men’s hairstyling salon. With everything in life, it seems, there is a give and take. Blaine asked if I’d be willing to work for seven months in his gigantic salon, where his stylists were roller-setting, teasing, and spraying women’s hair. I could be manager of the Men’s Salon. His hope was I’d build a male clientele doing cuts and blow dries, and they’d follow me to the new salon when it opened. Assuming I could get men to come into a women’s beauty salon. I knew I was being offered an incredible opportunity! A gift from God I was willing to take on, because I knew my work and how people responded to my haircuts. If you build it, they will come.

Yes, I would love to work here and do just that! Thank you.

I didn’t give a second thought to working around hundreds of women. Blaine and I would be the only men working there. Blaine’s was known as the best salon in Whitter and surrounding cities. If you were a woman who liked having your hair done in a ‘seventies-lacquered-hairdo,’ style that lasted a week or two, this was the place to go.

Over the next seven months, I worked in a long line of salon chairs with twelve female hairdressers. My chair was second from the end next to the back door. There was a row of hairdryers on the wall behind me. Occupied most of the time, by little old ladies who loved to watch me work. The dryers were loud and covered their ears, so they would have to yell when speaking to me. One day I heard. YOUNG MAN, I’M GOING TO SEND MY GRANDDAUGHTER TO YOU FOR A CUT AND BLOW JOB!!

Precision haircuts and ‘blow dries’ had not quite come into fashion yet. Thanks to Vidal Sassoon, they were getting there. Thank God, being self-taught, I caught on to Vidal’s way of cutting pretty well, if I do say so myself. As well as being continuously told.

One day, the manicurist pulled me aside to tell me her son taught at the Charles Ross Beauty School in Los Angeles. After seeing my work, she thought I was talented enough to take the Charles Ross course to develop my skills even further. After paying the $500 fee, I was more than excited that first Saturday morning at 8:00 a.m. I had flashbacks of Mrs. Archer teaching me something new. After giving my first haircut, Charles Ross called me into his office. I had a flashback of Ms. Kesler giving me the ‘cold hard truth.’ He’s going to tell me to give it up I thought. Oh, how our minds can mess with us when we are young. Mr. Ross calmly asked me to have a seat. Was I that bad that sitting down is the only way I’d be able to take the news?

I’m giving back your $500. He handed me my check. I felt devastated. You’re a naturally gifted haircutter. If we taught you my method, it would screw you up. There’s no reason for you to take this course.

He wished me well. I remember that day, especially when I drive by the corner of Kings Road and Beverly Boulevard. The school is gone, but the building still exists. As well as the image of Mr. Charles Ross confirming I was on the right track by listening to my own intuition.

Between the hairspray continuously filling my lungs, the daily rotation of matching-colored uniforms, pungent smells of heavy perfume, and the constant loud talking from twenty to thirty women at a time under hairdryers…working at Blaine’s felt like being back in beauty college, but I didn’t care. I went into work every day with a smile on my face. I kept telling myself: I’m going to be managing a salon on my own in just a matter of months.

Blaine and Shirley must have noticed how genuinely happy I was to endure all those months of working there, and how I built a large clientele of my own. Because at the end of my seventh month, and with only a few weeks away of the men’s hair salon opening, they called me into their office,

You have been such a hard worker. And so dedicated. How would you like to be the owner of the new salon and we’ll be your landlords? You can name it anything you’d like because it will be your own business.

I was speechless. All those months of thinking I was working towards managing the salon, I wasn’t expecting to own it!

Thank you, flew out of my mouth.

This was not a time for false humility. It seems as though people push away opportunities when they say things like ‘oh I don’t deserve it’. Or ‘are you sure?’ Thinking they don’t want to come across as arrogant, or full of themselves if they accept a compliment or a generous offer right away. When I watch TV shows like The Voice or American Idol, and I hear responses like, I never thought this would happen to me or I never expected this. I think, ‘then why did you audition or enter the contest, if you didn’t think it would happen? Don’t waste the audiences time believing in you if you’re not going to believe in yourself. It could cost you the very opportunity being presented. If you don’t think you’re worthy of a gift, the giver might reconsider if giving it to you was the right thing to do. You can never go wrong with, Thank you The two best words that can come out of your mouth when good things are being offered!

Someone gives you advice, thank you.

Someone offers you a job, thank you.

Someone offers you a chance to own your own salon. THANK YOU!

Within a year of graduating beauty college, at the age of 19, Manny’s Hairstyling opened on Painter Avenue in Whittier, California. God was giving me the opportunity to do what I had been telling people I was going to do. Ask, and you shall receive. A blessing I happily accepted.

CHAPTER THREE

June of 1976, less than a month from my twentieth birthday, my first customer Gloria Folico, the wife of my orthodontist Ernie Folico, who knew me since I was eleven, walked in Manny’s front door. My mother tried to talk me out of opening ‘Manny’s,’ explaining she was afraid for me. She still hadn’t let me cut her hair. Gloria told me how proud she was of me when she burst through my front door.

Just a few weeks before, my father helped me create individual stations for myself and each stylist I would eventually hire to work in. I liked having private time with the person in my chair. Giving us a chance to talk or open up if they felt the need. I once heard—don’t know if it’s true or not—when the FBI is looking for someone, one of the first people they’ll talk to is the person’s hairdresser. Over the years, I’ve been told many people’s life stories. I’ve felt honored to be trusted like that.

While cutting Gloria’s hair, I was also answering the phone. Getting a bit frustrated because I kept having to stop. She asked.

Who’s your receptionist?

Me!

You need to hire someone.

It didn’t occur to me I needed a receptionist. An employee? What did I know about running a business? I was only nineteen! Gloria stayed until the end of the day. Working the desk while I cut. For the next three days, Gloria kindly showed up to do more of the same. Without asking for money, Gloria gave me her time, belief in me and love. Gloria knew almost all of Whittier, and from the way people came, they knew her. She sang my praises like no one else. Between her three kids, Karen, Tina and Anthony and her neighbors and friends. Manny’s hit the ground running.

Gloria, you were a God send! It brings tears to my eyes thinking how kind you were. An angel. My family didn’t set foot in the door that first month. In case I failed, they’d spare me the embarrassment. Not so much as flowers or a card to wish me well. Hence my relationship with my family, which is now non-existent. Another book by itself!

After saying goodnight to Gloria on Thursday, ending my third day of business, I was about to close when a woman named Christina Newcomer walked in. She had a Dorothy Hamell wedge-haircut, perfect white teeth, horn-rimmed glasses and an enthusiastic personality that seemed genuine.

Hi! I’m Christina. I just graduated from Vidal Sassoon’s Beauty College in Beverly Hills. My husband Owen is a professor at Rio Hondo Junior College. We just moved to Whittier. I heard you might be hiring.

You heard I might be hiring? You must have heard it from God because I didn’t even know I was hiring. I was impressed by her directness. I knew immediately, Christina Newcomer was a Godsend.

You’re hired! Shot out of my mouth. My first employee. Christina was more than happy to have a job, even if it was answering the phone to start. Gloria was thrilled her reception position had been filled.

As I got busier, Christina started building clients from my overflow. More great employees followed. Lynne, Laura, and Cindy were excellent hairstylists. At my mother’s insistence, my sister Vivian became my receptionist. Thank you, Vivian, for looking out for me. At some point, almost every one of my clients would try to talk me into fitting in their mother, sister, friend, or stranger who just loved the way I cut hair. When Vivian caught them trying to ‘sweet-talk’ me, she knew the drill. I’d call out,

Is it possible to squeeze in—

NO. YOU CAN’T.

Thank you, Vivian. I love you.

Unlike Ms. Kesler predicted, clientele did follow me from ‘Marinello’ to ‘Blaine’s’ and on to ‘Manny’s Hairstyling’ without hesitation. What surprised me the most was many of Blaine’s stylist’s diehard clients, whom I had never worked on, jumped ship. Telling me they admired my work and waited with anticipation for me to make the move. Being too shy to ask for me while I was working at Blaine’s. Mostly because they didn’t want to offend their long-time beauticians. When word got back to Blaine’s, they were looked at as traitors. And I became Benedict Arnold.

My intention was never to steal a client from anyone. My work seemed to speak for itself. As soon as my doors opened, they came rushing across that parking lot. Eager to give up rollers, hairdryers, teasing and gallons of hair spray for the haircut and blow dry revelation.

My ‘girls,’ what my employees liked to refer to themselves as, were older than me. None of them seemed to care. Being younger and male, they treated me like a mother would—making sure no one took advantage of my kindness to everyone. I still think of all of you with such fondness. Thank you, ladies, for helping me and my business grow. And for being such loyal employees and dear friends.

One day, out of frustration, Vivian yelled out,

You can’t take any new customers!

I answered,

What? Why?

Because your regulars have to book their next appointments six and seven weeks ahead before they walk out the door. Women are getting upset!

It was flattering being in such demand. I was young. Making a lot of money. And dealing with all kinds of different personalities. Some heavy hitters in Whittier and surrounding cities. Many were nice. There were a few who eventually forced me to work up the nerve to say, I will not be doing your hair any longer. My first real encounters of learning to speak up to adults who believed they possessed power. Bullying their way through my door. Demanding I do their hair the moment they walked in. Not allowing anyone to shampoo them but me. Shame on you. Mrs. Dyer, a proclaimed Christian woman, was one of the biggest perpetrators.

I am thankful to people like Mrs. Dyer for helping me to find my voice when it came to standing up for myself when needed. I used to shake, but after a few times, it got easier. I didn’t know it then, but it was a voice I would need for the future I would embark on.

Clients offered their