But in the back of my mind, a small voice reminded me that School Picture Day would be soon approaching and I DO NOT have a good record going into that event. Also, the voice wondered, wasn't it Michelle who tried to trick you into drinking a protein puddle of sludge? I failed to recognize this Voice of Reason as the Lord's as I wouldn't have figured Him for a hair guy. Obviously, I forgot about Sampson.
So Saturday, I was DETERMINED to fulfill Michelle's dream of getting my hair cut. First, I tried getting into Haughty Hair...a snootie-patootie salon...where women not only went to get their hair styled but also to have their hair repaired and rejuvenated. Apparently, my hair required a resurrection so Haughty Hair was a no-go for me. I was escorted pretty enthusiastically out their art-deco doors. Undaunted...this was, after all, my destiny...I headed over to the Hair Lair. The women in this salon were not quite as disgusted by my arrival but admitted that they were unable to perform miracles. Could I come back during the week? After dark? I slunk out of the second salon.
This is hurting me more than it's hurting you, The Voice said, but how many more signs can I offer you to let you know that TODAY is not your day of transformation? Stubbornly, I pushed the small voice away ("Sigh," said the Lord, rolling His eyes, "It's your hair's funeral.") and drove to the Shear Shed. It was located next to a military recruitment center. Noticing that they didn't have any chairs, I plopped myself down on the long bench among the half dozen men also waiting for service. Rummaging through the wide variety of magazines, I finally settled on a periodical devoted to guns and accessories. I admired the factory precision applied to the men currently being serviced. B-u-z-z....b-u-z-z...b-u-z-z...the electric shavers fairly flew. Before I knew it...it was my turn! Seeing me, the stylists huddled up in what looked to be a heated debate. A lively game of rock/paper/scissors was conducted and the winner got me!
"How much do you want off?" she asked, spraying a garden hose on my head as I settled into my chair. I admired the MLB toiletry bag decorating each mirrored shelf. I wondered what I had to do to score one of those for Brad. "Three inches, please," I said confidently ("Sigh," sighed the Lord.). "Do you realize what three inches looks like?" she inquired doubtfully. I sat up straight in the chair and winked at her. I'd been waiting for that line my entire adult life. "Actually, I don't," I admitted, "How could I when my whole basis for comparison is eight inches?" The room exploded in applause. I received a standing ovation and two offers for drinks later at a bar called McGrubby's. I told them I'd have to check with my husband. Getting back to business, I tried to tell my stylist about Michelle's dream but apparently she was no longer interested in conversing with me. Five minutes later, I was done. I put on my glasses, thinking that maybe I'd look like a young Kate Jackson from Charlie's Angels. I gasped. Nope...forget Jaclyn, Farrah, and Kate...I looked like Bosley. "When did you put a bowl over my head?" I asked the stylist incredulously. I heard her mutter something about "Never-mind....bowl...head...rather...noose...neck..." but I couldn't quite make it out. Attempting to salvage the day, I asked about the toiletry bag and learned I would need to upgrade from the basic shaving service. I politely declined, paid, tipped her for my bowl cut and, sporting a nifty case of helmet head, I hustled out of there. School Picture Day...here I come! ("Sigh," sighed the Lord.).
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