I’m not sure you remember me, but I’m the woman who flew to Boulder from Park City. For a haircut.
I followed you on Instagram for awhile before I became convinced that you, and you alone, could cut my hair into the perfect shag. I decided, along with the cut, I could use a weekend away. I had some frequent flier miles, so I booked a flight, a cute AirBnb and an appointment.
On the scheduled day, I arrived at your tiny studio. I remember you opened the door and stared at me for a minute like I had a crop of dandelions growing out of my head. “May I help you?”
“Um, yes, I’m Kate. … I’m here for my appointment … for a transformational haircut?”
You clearly weren’t expecting me. In fact, you didn’t even move from the doorway. You simply continued to stare at me, your eyes instantly wilting the dandelions like a spritz of Round-Up.
That’s when we both realized that somehow the appointment I’d scheduled online weeks ago hadn’t gone through.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I’m booked all day—”
I felt my face flush. “But I flew in from Park City—”
You let out a huge sigh and said, “Call me in an hour. I’ll see what I can work out.”
I could hear Jerry Seinfeld echoing in my head, “You know how to take the reservation, you just don’t know how to hold the reservation.” But the real truth was arriving somewhere — even with the best-laid plans and intentions — doesn’t mean you’ve arrived as expected. Wanting something badly enough doesn’t necessarily make it convenient for the person opening the door.
You worked late that day to accommodate me. And as soon as I was sitting in your chair, all of the awkwardness faded away and I felt right at home. What had started as an inconvenient computer error turned into a meaningful human connection. And, as it turned out, a damn good haircut.
I’ve been thinking about doorways and arrivals this week as we brace for our final Sundance, a film festival that’s arrived in Park City for the past 42-43 years with all of the exhilaration and bravado of someone who truly believes they belong here. And for just as long, our town has made room, receiving the festival with a familiar mix of reluctance and pride.
For years, locals have bitched about the traffic, the crowds, the sheer inconvenience of hosting such an extravagant guest. At the same time, we’ve reveled in the glory of masterpieces like “Blood Simple”; “Sex, Lies, and Videotape” and “Reservoir Dogs.”
We, but mere mortals, receiving gods and goddesses — Sharon Stone, Richard Linklater, Pedro Pascal, Quentin Tarantino — and Zeus himself: the late, great Robert Redford. Just living in Park City made you feel like you were more than a witness. You were part of the discovery, standing so close that you might catch fire right along with it.
The sight of our favorite Main Street haunts overtaken with bougie VIP venues invokes as much frustration over the lack of parking and dining as it does elation over the economic boon it creates — especially in seasons when ski resort revenues are down. If nothing else, you’ve got to admit, the Sundance “people in black” seem to have more interest in the great indoors than outdoors. Which means — for a few days, anyway — we kind of have the ski trails to ourselves.
Reflecting on all of this, I recognize the feeling now. The one I probably caused when I stood in your doorway that morning. You might have been reluctant when you opened the door to me. But you were generous anyway. Maybe we don’t really understand what an arrival asks of us until we’re where we are right now: standing on the brink of departure.
So, Boulder, from someone who has been on both sides of the door, here are some things I think we’ve learned.
Grace doesn’t always come with enthusiasm. You don’t have to love every moment of it to host it well.
Inconvenience is far from injury. Even the biggest disruptions leave you with admirable skills. Skills you didn’t know you were learning or that you’d ever need.
You’re allowed to bitch and moan — and still show up graciously. Park City did both — often at the same time.
What arrives will change you. It won’t happen overnight. And sometimes, it’ll be uncomfortable. But trust us, you’ll never be the same.
Finally, Boulder, keep in mind that endings are always bittersweet. One door closes and all that. But if there’s one thing I know about doorways, it’s this: The moment you walk in can be jarring. It’s what happens when you walk out that tells you what it all meant.
Kate Sonnick has been working remotely as a freelance writer and creative director since 2003. She’s sad to see Sundance go and happy to have found a great hairdresser right here in Utah. Subscribe to her on Substack @katesonnick or follow her on Instagram @kate.sonnick.creative.