Sprays of orange, green and yellow plastic flowers and fall fruits decorate a polished wooden table at the front entrance of La Moda Salon. The catchy pop vocals of Shawn Mendes and Coldplay waft from the Bose speakers mounted on the cream wallpaper covered walls.
“Oh, you’re here to see Vin?” asks the trilly voiced receptionist. She offers a seat in a distressed chair then leaves to check on him. “He’ll be right with you,” she sang, sliding back into place behind her large wooden desk.
The stylists of the upscale East Northport salon glide around with flawless makeup and posh haircuts in vibrant colors. They wear all black and look more like bartenders at a swanky hotel bar. They listen intently, nodding and adding appropriate “oohs” and “ahs”, as their clients squak to them about their lives with heavy New York accents.
Vincenzo Lauretta enters the waiting area with a welcoming smile. He extends his arm for a handshake and finishes with a very Italian double cheek kiss. Vincenzo looks the part. His long black t-shirt, dark skinny jeans and perfectly coiffed hair is uniform with the other stylists. His green eyes shine behind his thick red frames which, along with his red Jordans, set him apart.
“So talk to me,” he says settling into one of the distressed chairs. Vincenzo is a third generation hairdresser, and so hair has been a huge part of his life. It was when he was 19 that he realized he wanted this for himself.
“I went to a hair show with my dad,” he recalls. “I just realized how many people loved him and how powerful and popular he was at the show. And from there I built a passion for it. The more hair I did, the better I got. I realized just by someone doing your hair you felt special.” He nods pensively. “It’s not just hair.”
Even after this early revelation, Vincenzo found himself struggling along a worn out path. His journey started only after a brief stint at community college sent him reeling.
“I went to Suffolk for a semester,” he says with a chuckle. Having ADD and being more of a visual learner made paying attention to the material difficult for him. “I was getting scared. But then I realized I really liked what my father was doing. So I went to beauty school.” The Aveda Beauty School in New York City was his first stop. Of course, this too came with difficulties of its own.
“It was great but it was difficult being the only straight guy in beauty school,” Vincenzo laments. “People made fun of me and stuff.” He finally overcame this after graduating. It didn’t matter to him; he had found himself. He was the “Curl King.”
“I’ve been doing hair for eight years, but curly hair for about three and a half years now. A blogger wrote a story about me and said ‘you need a nickname.’ I was nervous a nickname would limit me but he came up with Curl King and I thought ‘hey that’s pretty dope.’”
With approximately nine percent of the population being black, Latino or multiracial, East Northport might not seem like an ideal place for a hair stylist who caters to such a niche market. The salon itself, with predominantly white staff and clientele, is a sticky note reminding you of the limited diversity. But for Vincenzo it’s one of the reasons why it turned out to be a perfect fit.
“I started doing curly hair because there’s nobody on Long Island who specializes in curly hair,” Vincenzo says matter-of-factly. “I feel like curly-haired girls were always shunned from salons.They wouldn’t have the time to style your hair or they’d look at you a certain way. But I like the challenge of curly hair. It’s a challenge because it’s different.”
Family would be reason number two. La Moda is his father’s salon, he points out as Salvatore Lauretta himself glides from station to station, checking in on customers and stylists. “That’s the boss,” Vincenzo whispers playfully. Salvatore, 55, struts confidently around his salon checking on clients and a stylists. Being Italian, for Vincenzo, meant being family-oriented. A Hauppauge native, sticking around family was an obvious choice. Reason number three? The city sucks.
Vincenzo grimaces. Folding his arms across his chest he says, “I tried the city thing for a year and a half and it’s the whole pompous and arrogant kind of people and I like hometown people. At the end of the day if you’re good they’ll come to you.”
Vincenzo also goes to them. He’s fresh off of trips to Guadeloupe and Amsterdam where he went to see clients, teach hair styling and care classes and participate in hair shows and conventions.
“Speaking in front of hundreds of black women when I’m just this freaking white guy from Long Island is crazy.”
“Are you into astrology?” he asks. “I’m a Cancer so I’m very sensitive and passionate so I feel like I’m shy and in my shell. But hair breaks me out of my shell.”
The doors open and his first client of the day walks in. “Do you wanna come hang out with me while I do hair?” he asks excitedly.
Vincenzo’s station is neat and pristine. A dark wood armoire holds drawers stuffed with hair brushes of varying sizes, bristle materials and purposes. Holders on the side keep blowdryers and flat irons in place. He escorts his client, Shirley, to the black-leather styling chair facing the gilded mirror above the armoire.
“Are we coloring your hair today?” he asks fluffing her dark curly tresses.
“I’ve never colored my hair besides a rinse,’ Shirley responds with a light chuckle. “The greys just keep coming back.”
“Tell your husband to stop stressing you out then,” Vincenzo responds causing Shirley to shake with laughter.
She wants her hair straightened for a formal event she’s attending the next day. As the Curl King, Vincenzo isn’t very happy about this, but the customer is always right,
“You don’t think an Afro is dressy?” he teases. Shirley blushes.
“Maybe if it kept a shape? I don’t know. But I want it to grow some more before I wear it out.” Vincenzo presses her some more about her curls, being sure to encourage and not berate her for her choice. He caves nonetheless. The customer is always right.
He leads her to the sleek, black shampoo station where he pulls bottle after bottle, pouring and lathering and pouring and lathering. The air smells of bubblegum, rather than chemical filled products.
Shirley closes her eyes. A smile plays at her lips as Vincenzo strikes up conversation, asking about her life in West Babylon and injecting critiques and tips for everyday hair care. This pleasure clients feel as he works on their hair is what he lives for.
Back in the chair, Vincenzo places a hand on each of Shirley's shoulders preparing for the heat.
“Don’t be telling people the Curl King blow dries hair,” he says with a smirk, meeting her gaze in the mirror. He pulls out his iPhone and his fingers flick over the touchscreen. He likes to time how long it takes him to blow dry and flat iron. He estimates 45 minutes.
Vincenzo readies his blowdryer.
3...2...1
He takes him time, moving the comb of dryer slowly, slowly, root to tip, root to tip, section by section, ensuring each section is bone dry before moving on. Vincenzo moves effortlessly around the styling chair, his upper lip stiff with concentration. Each motion is precise and sharp. All the while he keeps up conversation in between dance breaks to Justin Bieber’s “Sorry.”
“I’m actually taking dance lessons to surprise my fiance at the wedding. I got two left feet.”
Things cool off 50 minutes later, five minutes over time but it’s not a big deal. Vincenzo has Shirley stand to trim hair. Stylists should always be eye level with their clients when trimming.
Shirley’s eyes brighten as the final result is revealed.
“Wow, that looks so much better,” she says twisting this way and that to look at her fresh cut at different angles. “Thanks so much,” she flashes him a big grin.
“You’re very welcome. Don’t forget to tie that down immediately or you’re gonna end up with an Afro anyway.” He ushers her to the receptionist then turns back and says “Let’s go color someone’s hair.” He can hardly contain his excitement.
The color station is on the other side of the wall of the styling station. The entire back wall holds rows of dyes in every hue. High counters act as mixing stations, and the adjacent wall features paintings of wine and other alcoholic beverages. It really is a bar and Vincenzo is now a mixologist. He carefully measures and mixes dyes and chemicals into a plastic bowl that sits on a scale. He slaps on a pair of thick, black latex gloves and begins painting purple goop on the grey-speckled brunette sections. After each coat, he wraps the section in gold tin foil, smiling and nodding as the new client warbles on about her daughter.
After folding the last sheet of foil, he sets a timer and rests it between two of four half empty venti Starbucks cups that dot the counter. He takes a seat under a hooded hair dryer and lets out a heavy puff of air. He’s been on his feet for almost two hours straight.
A message lights up his phone screen - an Instagram notification. A new follower to add to his almost 20,000. He mindlessly scrolls the notifications for a beat. The 27-year-old has managed to amass a large following in just a few years.
“This is my son Evan,” Vincenzo says clicking on a picture of the two in an embrace. “My step-son. He’s six.” He flicks a finger and selects another picture featuring his father and two brothers linked arm over shoulder. As if sensing the delve into family talk, a text message banner drops low on his screen. “Steph ❤” the banner reads. His fiancé. He smiles subtly.
“You like the salon?” he asks looking around at the wooden plaques inscribed with motivational quotes that hang over the wash station. “It’s nice right?” Vincenzo’s eyes settle on his dad whose latex gloved hands add peroxide to the dark roots of his blonde client. “A lot of stylists have been around a while.” he says.
“Some of them watched you grow up,” replies another stylist,
Jen, looking back at him. Her hands continued applying dye to the grey of her clients fresh shape up. Vincenzo laughs and points at a short blonde woman trimming the ends of her client’s hair. “Danielle’s been here since I was 14.” He sits back against his seat and folds his arms, his laughing fading into an appreciative smile.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Hairdressers are selfless. That’s why we create art.”