So I went and used my year-old gift certificate and got my hair cut at the fancy salon. (Also a brow wax, which is sort of funny, because my brows are so blonde that they almost don’t exist. I could let them go wild and no one would be the wiser.) It was pretty fancy-schmancy. There was a coat check girl.
The hair-doing guy didn’t want to talk to me. He didn’t even really want to hear how I wanted my hair to look. I started with my usual “Well I was thinking…”, and then dug out my wrinkled up magazine pictures, and he was all “uh huh, uh huh, have a seat.” When I took it down from the ponytail, he grimaced.
He kept thwapping me in the eye with my own wet hair as he whipped it around, proving just how uninterested he was in anything to do with anything save for the hair on my head, and by even that he seemed slightly bothered.
In the end, we warmed up, he told me he’d just had lipo, and I told him… nothing that interesting. The only question he asked me was “Did you say you have a kid?”
Imagine that in a Paris-Hilton-if-she-was-a-boy voice.
My hair looks remarkably the same, but with better ends.
Snapshots from a Marriage
Me: What time did you get in last night?
A: I don’t know, it was late, I had to tear down my drums after the show. I feel really dehydrated.
Me: What a mystery.
A: I know. I don’t get it. I drank a lot last night.