My roommate recently decreed that I need some more life experience. According to her, my lifestyle's current lack of drug usin' and casual sexin' have ill-prepared me for the rigors of being a writer -- not having broken any hearts or kneecaps reflects poorly on both the quality of my character and my prose. Sure, all she actually said was, "Maybe you ought to try dating a little, Liz," but the implication was clear.

So I took her advice. Sorta. Last week, I cheated. I skipped out on a person who means a lot to me. I fooled around with a total stranger...

I got my hair cut at Rudy's.

See, I already have a stylist to whom I'm supposedly loyal. Hugh, who works at the salon six blocks away with the shiny red walls and the gold gilt mirrors, has been cutting my hair since my junior year of college -- ever since I realized that I couldn't keep going six months between haircuts. Looking for a salon within my zip code, I bumbled into that salon on Melrose without a clue, naive and innocent, in desperate search of the comfort that comes with getting a cut by someone who understands your hair. And Hugh had an opening in his schedule.

That first haircut was simply magical -- my scalp massaged by gentle fingers during the leisurely shampoo, and my hair styled into puffy perfection via a mysterious combination of Hugh's hair products and straightening iron. I loved the haircut and kept coming back, calling ahead and scheduling an appointment so that I knew he'd be ready for me when I needed him. I'd pop in before big dates, parties, graduation ceremonies -- any time I wanted to look my best.

But after about three years... I dunno. Maybe it was the ten-dollar price hike. Maybe it was the way he was always so disappointed by my reliance on the same old styles. Or was it his quiet resentment every time I declined to buy some of the styling products he pushed on me? Whatever the case, perfection was getting a little old.

Thus, when I kicked my New Year's resolution up a notch and started running again, jogging around my neighborhood, weaving around homeless men and ladies who lunch, I saw that a new Rudy's had opened up at the end of my street. Three blocks away, not six. Half the price of Hugh.

Rudy's has always seemed mythic to me, a golden idol of cool, the converted garage of its Los Feliz branch acting as an altar to folks who can unclench enough to trust a tattooed stranger with their hair. The closest you get to scheduling an appointment at Rudy's is to call ahead and put your name on the waiting list -- the typical bohemian will wait an hour before being slammed into the next available chair. A stylist at Rudy's sees up to thirty people a day, and there are plenty of horror stories -- poor haircuts disguised by a quick application of gel as well as people who are left with half-shaved heads and instructions to go to Supercuts to take care of the rest (and forced to pay for the privilege). In short, nothing is guaranteed at Rudy's.

But maybe it wasn't just that that worried me. Maybe it was a geography thing. I live in West Hollywood, with wide, even streets lined with available parking spaces -- some of them not even permit! I love living here, but the abundance of timeworn Russian neighbors doesn't make it the hippest of neighborhoods, and while the Los Feliz/Silver Lake area is one I love, I have never yet felt truly urban enough to call it my own -- especially places like Rudy's. You have to be confident to go to Rudy's. You have to be assured that your considerable hotness will transcend the possibility of a substandard haircut.

That's what I always figured, anyways. But the fact that there was a Rudy's on Melrose seemed like a good sign. A welcoming sign. Maybe Rudy's wasn't the hipster totem I thought it was? Or maybe my neighborhood -- and by extension me -- weren't quite as unhip as I thought.

I dressed carefully for my inaugural trip to Rudy's: the velvet blazer I'd picked up at a garage sale, an Urban Outfitters camisole, my coolest jeans, funky, boxy shoes, and dangly earrings that reached my shoulders. I was hot, though uncomfortable, as I made my way up to the receptionist.

"Sorry, we don't have time for you tonight. Try again tomorrow?"

Screw getting gussied up. I came back the next day in a hoodie and sneakers, three hours before closing, my feet twitching as I watched the too-cool stylists and the too-cool clientele. I tried not to think about the Batman tee I wore. I tried not to feel fat.

The next available stylist was short and laid-back, with spiky hair, a nice handshake, and a nicer smile. He shampooed with brisk fingers as we chatted about our Friday night plans: a party for me, a date with his boyfriend. Friendly and open but not too personal. Brian? Tim? Steve? I don't remember his name, but it was fun talking to him.

I relaxed as I watched this new pair of scissors go to town on my hair. It wasn't awkward. I didn't have to pretend to remember what we'd talked about three months ago, didn't have to remember all the personal awkward details. I just got a haircut. This dude cut it for me. And that was it.

I felt loose, free, liberated. Maybe Brian/Tim/Steve and I weren't on the most intimate of terms, and maybe I couldn't see myself coming back to him, year after year, the way I had with Melissa and Hugh. But it didn't have to be that way. No pressure, no commitment. Just the snick of the shears, some discussion of the Scissor Sisters, and the cool air of a springtime Friday night drifting inside. Just some harmless fun.

Brian/Tim/Steve styled me up, using minimal product: "I can tell you like it pretty natural." He was right, oddly enough. Hugh had never been able to figure that out.

And as he applied the final touches, he mentioned, "So, did you ever watch that show Buffy? Because I saw that girl who played Willow in this home accessory store, and she had a haircut a lot like this. I thought of it when you said you wanted it flippy."

"My hair was inspired by Alyson Hannigan?" I gave it a quick toss to verify his claim, and it bounced back, feathered as can be. I squealed.

Brian/Tim/Steve and I hugged and wished each other a most excellent weekend before he disappeared into the break room and I paid for the cut, rarely happier. I don't know if I'll get up the gumption to skip out on Hugh again -- the last time I walked down Melrose, I sped past the salon in fear that he might see my Hannigan-esque 'do and recognize something amiss -- but this brief dalliance was more than worth it.

Maybe it's not much in the way of life experience, but hey: baby steps. Next week, I could get a pedicure. That'd be scary for everyone involved.