It all starts with the hair. In the kitchen we have the honor and responsibility of feeding people food expected to be tasty and clean. Keeping hair out of food is the minimum requirement. Originally head covers, like the Chef’s Torque, are worn not only for cleanliness but as a badge of authority. Traditionally the folds of the Torque represented the minimum number of ways a skilled Chef could prepare an egg. A more Senior Chef would have his Torque filled with folds while a newer one might have only a dozen. Simple items are filled with messages apparent to those working in the Professional kitchen. Even a simple topic like hair reeks with demonstrations of skill, authority, culture but not in anyway—fashion. Typically the newest and least experienced person in the kitchen comes in with a beard or moustache and that first night of wearing a beard net and hair restraint usually encourages him to shave for the next night. Women in the kitchen are another story altogether. As in any industry, women are frequently held to a different standard. In the close environments of a high pressure kitchen, skill and a decent personality can make key differences in a restaurants success. Nobody wants sexual tension in the kitchen. There is usually enough passion to go around about the food without adding matters of the heart and genitals into the mix.
When adding to this already tension-filled stewpot of heat, speed and, humidity the cultural communications sent by female hair styles must be silent. No cute ponytails, swinging over the flattop. But then we need to stir briskly and season with the added fresh style of the new gay female Chef . We have seen that style—all sleek, modern, sharp edges, heavy with product and blissfully free of constraints from either two hundred years of male Chef kitchen domination or –in the outside world--expectations of traditional female hairdressing. A battlefield of epic and misunderstood
implications awaits those souls who enter. But for me, I end up in the smack middle of it all, barely tolerated by all sides. Remember—we are just talking about HAIR here. Not my culinary point of view, how good my skills are or even what the rest of me looks like hidden in my standard restaurant uniform.
My style is in no way boisterous. Yet by attempting to downplay and fit in all I do is illustrate just how unlike I am to my other counterparts in the kitchen. I have very thick, coarse textured, very curly hair. Sounds cool and sexy, right? But not appropriate in the professional kitchen. The last thing you want to happen when you walk thru the door is to have the busboy wolf-whistle at you long and low saying “Ay! Mamacita). No matter how I arrange my hair it manages to arrive in luscious waves, thick rolls, curvy twists and cutie-pie curls. For years I attempted short hair styles, but the standard 110% humidity in the kitchen created a ball-bush effect that had the staff tossing pencils at my back to see if they would become buried in my hair. If I find a hair clip that will actually hold all that hair, it usually has a cute little pink rosebud glued on with cement. Then to add insult to injury, I must use BOBBY PINS to attach my Chefs Hat to my head. The traditional chefs hate all that implied sensuality not related to food. They are insulted that you might bring a touch of housewife to the sacred skills of fine dining. I am dead.
My proudly Gay sisters frequently use my hair as an entrée to discussions of my private life. When they discover I’ve been married THIRTY-SEVEN YEARS to the same man, it’s not uncommon to see a wave of pain wash over their faces—like they just smelled bad beef or turned milk. It takes several weeks of once again proving myself as yes—capable of my own thoughts and opinions—and not a puppet of a man. And as the working night continues, heat and perspiration start to cause all kinds of little curly hair bits to creep out from under my head gear. I have little skinny locks hanging behind my ears. Not uncommonly, a friendly touch will reach out to tuck that straggler back into my bun and I am careful to greet that gentle touch with a smile.
The professional kitchen is filled with real and implied landmines. Drop the flat of three dozen eggs and watch the explosions. Enter into a kitchen, even trained in a top Culinary School
