Stitchpop

Did you know I've had essentially the same long/straight hairstyle thoughout most of my teenage/adult life? My hair and I had an agreement. You don't bother me, I won't bother you. So for many years it's kept me away from hair joints that don't begin with Great or end with Sam's.

Lately, the hair has failed to uphold its end of the bargain. It's been in my face when I bend over to pick something up, when I try to buckle Gert into her carseat, even when I'm eating. I'm pushing it out of the way more often than the dog, which is saying a lot.

I announced last night that the long hair is not working for me anymore. So my supportive husband went online and bookmarked countless sites full of inspiringly short hair styles.

Now I have a hair style but no stylist. Being prone as I am to impulsive decision-making, I tell Gary that we're going to get my hair cut TODAY even though that probably means putting my hair into the dubiously trained hands of a Custom Cuts girl. I printed a photo and decided anything would be better than living another day with long, heavy, annoying hair.

I wasn't expecting the receptionist to be mean and snippy with me when I told her I wanted a haircut. But that's okay. I sat down to wait, and then watched one of the stylists argue with a customer over what he wanted.

Okay, that doesn't bode well, but we're already here, so fine. Then the stylist argued with her next customer over their pricing structure. Loudly. And the customer walked out.

So the bitchy receptionist and the loud stylist spent several minutes talking with each other about how valuable their time was, and that was just Too Darn Bad for everyone else.

Gary had been giving me the eye this entire time. "You want to bail?" he asked me. I said no. The bitching and shrill self-righteousness continued. Customers exchanged looks. "You sure?" Gary said.

We bailed.

I am still stuck with my long hair, but at least Shrilly McShrew wasn't going to be the one to cut it.