Shalom.
David Sagiv died September 30. When we heard he had been killed, Stacy and I asked the same question:
"Was he in a motorcycle accident?"
It was a natural question about a man who embraced his wild streak. And when somebody you care about has a motorcycle, no matter how adept they are at driving it, you're always afraid they're going to be hurt. But David died in a wholly tragic, unnatural way, doing a wholly average, natural thing: He was putting groceries into his car while his pregnant wife and three of their children waited for him to finish, get back into the car, and take them on a fishing trip. From what I understand, a man driving illegally on a suspended license lost control of his van (whether he was speeding or drunk, I do not know) and crashed into David while he was loading the back of his car. David's wife and children saw the whole thing.
The next day, his body was flown to Israel, where he was buried.
His distraught wife could not attend the funeral. She gave birth to their daughter a week later.
I get all of this out of the way early, because when people read that a strapping, healthy 40-year-old man dies, they skim through the article to find out how it happened. It's a natural reaction, a human curiosity for and attraction to tragedy. And this is the ultimate tragedy. But I want to use this forum to talk about David, so there it is, up top. A person who had no right to be behind the wheel of an automobile put his keys in the ignition, drove toward a Brooklyn grocery store and killed my friend.
For nine years, David was my hairdresser. The myth of a woman's relationship with her hairdresser — the hairdresser as therapist, the salon chair as confessional, the hair dryer as microphone, the handheld mirror at the end of the appointment as reflection of the woman fulfilling her aesthetic potential — never really rang true for me growing up, probably because I'd never had a hairdresser who had a clue of what to do with my head. In my experience, hairdressers hate curly hair. All they want to do is, literally, straighten you out. When I moved to New York, Stacy told me about David, her hot Israeli hairdresser. She said, "If he ever moves out of state, I'm following him. You have to go to him." So I figured I'd give him a try. I didn't have anyone to go to, so I had nothing to lose. What was one more mediocre haircut?
David grew up in Israel and learned his trade there, so he trained on curly-haired Jewish women. He once told me that the young women in Israel go to salons at 10, 11 at night to get their hair straightened before hitting the clubs, so he'd often work late into the night, making them look and feel dangerously hot. At first, I was thrilled to finally find someone who knew how to shape my stringy, moody curls (behold, the world of layers!), and then, as we became friends, I began to feel guilty asking him to do my hair, because I looked at him more as a pal as opposed to a person who, technically, I paid to provide me a service. I so often sat in his chair wanting to say, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to. We can just catch up." But how could I possibly give up the business aspect of a relationship with the only person I've ever met who gave me a great haircut?
It's not that our relationship was so confessional, like the myth would lead you to believe. It was just fun. There was always a kiss when I walked into the salon. He was a mad flirt, so when I first started seeing him, we'd talk about sex. I think we had an appreciation for each other's outward raunchiness. And then when I met Josh and I kept those sacred stories closer to my chest, we just talked about other things. His family. Our travels. I only get my hair cut twice a year, so there were always major changes in his life to talk about during each visit. He got divorced. Then he met a beautiful Latvian woman while he was in Europe. They fell in love. She got pregnant. They got married. She moved to the States. They moved into a fabulous house. They shared a happy life together. He held onto his motorcycle. His kids were getting so big. He always asked about Josh. He always encouraged the changes in our own lives. Nothing seemed to shake him. He made even the most profound life events seem loose and manageable. There wasn't anything about him that I didn't find easygoing.
David was a wild child who was completely unapologetic about where he directed his energies. He lived.
He was the only man I was ever attracted to who had long hair.
He was so laid-back that his chilled-out voice was sometimes hard to hear over the drone of the hair dryers, but he was calmly patient and repeated himself clearly each time my deaf self asked, "What?"
He was the only straight man who could pull off wearing leather pants.
He was a terrific hairdresser, but was open about the fact that he wasn't great at coloring or updos. So when Stacy got married, she opted to wear her hair down, because she would rather have David do her hair for her wedding than wear it up.
Stacy and her husband, Mark, were closer with David than I was. A lot of the most hilarious stories I'd heard about him came from them. They'd been to a party at his house, they'd been on his boat, he was at their wedding. David was an invitation — the more, the merrier. Stacy and Mark's wedding reception was on a boat that circled lower Manhattan, and when we passed in front of the Statue of Liberty, the DJ played "The Star-Spangled Banner." David and I were standing together on the roof of the boat, and we cheesily belted out the words of the song, arms outstretched toward the harbor, cracking up as we sang. I'm sure mirrors cracked and puppies cried with the sounds that came out of our mouths, but damn we had fun. It was only later that I realized I shared that moment with an immigrant, perhaps because David made every place he landed feel like that was where he was born to be. That night, while I gave my maid-of-honor speech, I found myself continually looking up at David — who was so tall, so handsome, so noticeable — because he grinned genially through the whole thing, making me feel like I was giving the greatest speech of all time. He was a calming, comforting force.
When I went to the salon on Wednesday, I was going to have my eyebrows done for the first time. I wasn't planning to get my hair cut until next month. I walked in and the salon was pretty empty, not surprising for 2 p.m. on a Wednesday. I checked in at the desk and then asked if David was going to be in that day. I wanted to chat a little; on the way to the salon, I had thought of all the things I wondered about him that we really hadn't talked about yet, and I was going to just start asking questions. I also thought he'd be horrified about how long my hair is now, but Josh and I had a wedding to go to on Cape Cod this past weekend, so I didn't want to cut it until after the event.
They told me he died. And then they gave me the article from the Daily News. I stood in the middle of the salon and cried. And then I thought how hard it must be for the folks who work there: David was a stylist there for 16 years, he was for all intents and purposes a family member there, and they probably have to watch people hear the news and break down every single day. They have to relive what happened to him every single day. They were very kind to me, they told me what they knew, and then they gently offered to pair me with a different stylist when I'm ready, asking me specifically what I liked that David did so they could give me the name of someone with similar techniques. It's still a business, and David's clients were loyal. I think I'm going to continue going there, as hard as it will be, probably because they were like family to him.
They also told me about a fund that's been set up to help his family. His wife is 24, has three children (including a newborn) and is new to the country. David was her only means of support, and nobody is sure what she's going to do. I can't even imagine. They were just starting their life together.
Tragedy on this scale is a difficult thing to process. All I know is that my friend embraced his edge, his sexiness. He smiled all the time. He respected your space but shared himself with you however you were comfortable to do it. He loved his family. He looked forward. And he dedicated his entire professional life to making women look and feel beautiful. His was a life lived, a life well used. I looked at his empty salon chair before I left on Wednesday, a smock folded over the back, and I know this: He filled whatever he did with talent, excitement, humor and interest. That's the very best way someone can use their time on this earth.
If you are interested in helping David's family, tax-deductible donations are being accepted at the following address:
Friends of Machon Elyashiv, Inc.
31-51 Crescent St.
Long Island City, NY 11106
"Was he in a motorcycle accident?"
It was a natural question about a man who embraced his wild streak. And when somebody you care about has a motorcycle, no matter how adept they are at driving it, you're always afraid they're going to be hurt. But David died in a wholly tragic, unnatural way, doing a wholly average, natural thing: He was putting groceries into his car while his pregnant wife and three of their children waited for him to finish, get back into the car, and take them on a fishing trip. From what I understand, a man driving illegally on a suspended license lost control of his van (whether he was speeding or drunk, I do not know) and crashed into David while he was loading the back of his car. David's wife and children saw the whole thing.
The next day, his body was flown to Israel, where he was buried.
His distraught wife could not attend the funeral. She gave birth to their daughter a week later.
I get all of this out of the way early, because when people read that a strapping, healthy 40-year-old man dies, they skim through the article to find out how it happened. It's a natural reaction, a human curiosity for and attraction to tragedy. And this is the ultimate tragedy. But I want to use this forum to talk about David, so there it is, up top. A person who had no right to be behind the wheel of an automobile put his keys in the ignition, drove toward a Brooklyn grocery store and killed my friend.
For nine years, David was my hairdresser. The myth of a woman's relationship with her hairdresser — the hairdresser as therapist, the salon chair as confessional, the hair dryer as microphone, the handheld mirror at the end of the appointment as reflection of the woman fulfilling her aesthetic potential — never really rang true for me growing up, probably because I'd never had a hairdresser who had a clue of what to do with my head. In my experience, hairdressers hate curly hair. All they want to do is, literally, straighten you out. When I moved to New York, Stacy told me about David, her hot Israeli hairdresser. She said, "If he ever moves out of state, I'm following him. You have to go to him." So I figured I'd give him a try. I didn't have anyone to go to, so I had nothing to lose. What was one more mediocre haircut?
David grew up in Israel and learned his trade there, so he trained on curly-haired Jewish women. He once told me that the young women in Israel go to salons at 10, 11 at night to get their hair straightened before hitting the clubs, so he'd often work late into the night, making them look and feel dangerously hot. At first, I was thrilled to finally find someone who knew how to shape my stringy, moody curls (behold, the world of layers!), and then, as we became friends, I began to feel guilty asking him to do my hair, because I looked at him more as a pal as opposed to a person who, technically, I paid to provide me a service. I so often sat in his chair wanting to say, "You don't have to do this if you don't want to. We can just catch up." But how could I possibly give up the business aspect of a relationship with the only person I've ever met who gave me a great haircut?
It's not that our relationship was so confessional, like the myth would lead you to believe. It was just fun. There was always a kiss when I walked into the salon. He was a mad flirt, so when I first started seeing him, we'd talk about sex. I think we had an appreciation for each other's outward raunchiness. And then when I met Josh and I kept those sacred stories closer to my chest, we just talked about other things. His family. Our travels. I only get my hair cut twice a year, so there were always major changes in his life to talk about during each visit. He got divorced. Then he met a beautiful Latvian woman while he was in Europe. They fell in love. She got pregnant. They got married. She moved to the States. They moved into a fabulous house. They shared a happy life together. He held onto his motorcycle. His kids were getting so big. He always asked about Josh. He always encouraged the changes in our own lives. Nothing seemed to shake him. He made even the most profound life events seem loose and manageable. There wasn't anything about him that I didn't find easygoing.
David was a wild child who was completely unapologetic about where he directed his energies. He lived.
He was the only man I was ever attracted to who had long hair.
He was so laid-back that his chilled-out voice was sometimes hard to hear over the drone of the hair dryers, but he was calmly patient and repeated himself clearly each time my deaf self asked, "What?"
He was the only straight man who could pull off wearing leather pants.
He was a terrific hairdresser, but was open about the fact that he wasn't great at coloring or updos. So when Stacy got married, she opted to wear her hair down, because she would rather have David do her hair for her wedding than wear it up.
Stacy and her husband, Mark, were closer with David than I was. A lot of the most hilarious stories I'd heard about him came from them. They'd been to a party at his house, they'd been on his boat, he was at their wedding. David was an invitation — the more, the merrier. Stacy and Mark's wedding reception was on a boat that circled lower Manhattan, and when we passed in front of the Statue of Liberty, the DJ played "The Star-Spangled Banner." David and I were standing together on the roof of the boat, and we cheesily belted out the words of the song, arms outstretched toward the harbor, cracking up as we sang. I'm sure mirrors cracked and puppies cried with the sounds that came out of our mouths, but damn we had fun. It was only later that I realized I shared that moment with an immigrant, perhaps because David made every place he landed feel like that was where he was born to be. That night, while I gave my maid-of-honor speech, I found myself continually looking up at David — who was so tall, so handsome, so noticeable — because he grinned genially through the whole thing, making me feel like I was giving the greatest speech of all time. He was a calming, comforting force.
When I went to the salon on Wednesday, I was going to have my eyebrows done for the first time. I wasn't planning to get my hair cut until next month. I walked in and the salon was pretty empty, not surprising for 2 p.m. on a Wednesday. I checked in at the desk and then asked if David was going to be in that day. I wanted to chat a little; on the way to the salon, I had thought of all the things I wondered about him that we really hadn't talked about yet, and I was going to just start asking questions. I also thought he'd be horrified about how long my hair is now, but Josh and I had a wedding to go to on Cape Cod this past weekend, so I didn't want to cut it until after the event.
They told me he died. And then they gave me the article from the Daily News. I stood in the middle of the salon and cried. And then I thought how hard it must be for the folks who work there: David was a stylist there for 16 years, he was for all intents and purposes a family member there, and they probably have to watch people hear the news and break down every single day. They have to relive what happened to him every single day. They were very kind to me, they told me what they knew, and then they gently offered to pair me with a different stylist when I'm ready, asking me specifically what I liked that David did so they could give me the name of someone with similar techniques. It's still a business, and David's clients were loyal. I think I'm going to continue going there, as hard as it will be, probably because they were like family to him.
They also told me about a fund that's been set up to help his family. His wife is 24, has three children (including a newborn) and is new to the country. David was her only means of support, and nobody is sure what she's going to do. I can't even imagine. They were just starting their life together.
Tragedy on this scale is a difficult thing to process. All I know is that my friend embraced his edge, his sexiness. He smiled all the time. He respected your space but shared himself with you however you were comfortable to do it. He loved his family. He looked forward. And he dedicated his entire professional life to making women look and feel beautiful. His was a life lived, a life well used. I looked at his empty salon chair before I left on Wednesday, a smock folded over the back, and I know this: He filled whatever he did with talent, excitement, humor and interest. That's the very best way someone can use their time on this earth.
If you are interested in helping David's family, tax-deductible donations are being accepted at the following address:
Friends of Machon Elyashiv, Inc.
31-51 Crescent St.
Long Island City, NY 11106
posted by Marla at 3:49 PM
11 Comments:
What a heartbreak... I am so sorry, Marla. I can tell how much he meant to you. May he rest in peace. Can you post a photo? I would love to see what he looked like.
I'm so sorry. This is a beautiful tribute.
Kristina
I cried. Didn't know him. Don't know you. We are all connected one way or another.
My G-d, I am so sorry. That was a beautiful tribute you posted.
Thank you so much for your condolences, everyone. I can't stop thinking about David and his family, and I wasn't sure how to articulate what he meant to me and those who cared about him. I really appreciate all your kind comments.
I don't have any pictures of him, unfortunately, but Stacy does from her wedding. She just moved to San Francisco last week and her life is in boxes at the moment (and I'm sure she's very much in mourning, too), but once things settle down for her, I'll ask her to e-mail me a photo of David that I can post. He was GORGEOUS.
Thank you again, everyone. It really means a lot.
Thanks marla this is really sweet of you.
this is davids daughter Allison.
i miss him alot too. its hard. butt all i can do is just be strong.
Oh, my, Allison, thank you so much for posting. I'm so, so sorry for your loss. My heart just goes out to you. Your father was a truly special human being, and he was so proud of you. He always told me how you were doing and how fast you're growing up. You're such a huge part of what a great person he was.
I want to apologize if I got any of my facts or the timeline of your dad's life wrong. I relied on my memory, which is shoddy at best, and the Daily News, which is shoddy at best. I meant no disrespect and I certainly don't want to write anything that isn't true, so if there's anything you want me to correct, please feel free to let me know.
I'm so glad you got in touch, Allison, and so sad for what you and your family are going through. If you want to talk or just hear from someone who your dad made incredibly happy (nobody will ever do my hair the way he did), please send me an e-mail at marlagarla@yahoo.com any time. And hang in there. I can't imagine what you're going through, but I know your dad will always be smiling on you.
Marla,
Very powerfully written. I'm so sorry for your loss -- from all I've heard, he sounds like a great guy with a love for life, and you wrote a wonderful tribute to him.
Carly
Marla, that was a beautiful and enlightening tribute. I am Matt, Allison's older brother. David was my step-dad...but more than a father. It is true that tragedy unlocks doors, as I am blessed to have read this. E-mail me anytime...
Matt, thank you so much for sending this. The blog program never sent me an alert to your comment for me to approve and post it, so I'm not sure when you sent it, so please don't think I've ignored it in only posting it now. I feel horrible that I missed it.
Your comment was absolutely lovely. I'm so glad to be in touch with you and your sister. I will absolutely send you an e-mail asap: I received the beautiful pictures you sent, so thank you so very much. I'll get in touch very soon ...
Your dad would be so proud of both of you.
x
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