I got my hair cut the other day. Hardly news worthy, I know. It can be a bit of an adventure, as I have to remove my glasses while the stylist works, so I have no idea what they’re doing. They could literally be cutting their initials into my hair and I would be completely clueless. In general, I have had pretty good luck, as only one stylist has attempted to give me a ‘Flock of Seagulls-esque’ pompadour. A few others have gotten fancy, but that’s another story.
Anyway, there I was, sitting in a chair, completely blind, and trusting that the stylist isn’t having a bad day and recreating Edward Munch’s ‘Scream’ on the back of my head.
NOTE: I have a stylist. I would rather have a barber, but the stylist is okay. My basic problem with a stylist is that they have a tendency to get, how shall we say, artsy. I don’t want art, I want my hair to not look like I just French-kissed an electrical socket.
NOTE: I do not recommend French-kissing an electrical socket. Or kissing an electrical socket in general. Frankly, I would advise against a physical relationship of any kind with an electrical socket. Unless, of course, you really, really love each other.
So, I’m in the chair, not saying anything, as I don’t like to chat when I’m getting my hair cut (‘cause I want the person with the scissors to be paying attention to my hair). In the next chair over, however, is a woman who is telling her stylist everything. And I mean EVERYTHING.
Tomorrow: More of EVERYTHING
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