Huh, what? It's true, I hate confrontations. Big ones, little ones, anywhere in between ones . . . hate them. The only time I can handle them is if someone is messing with my family . . . then watch out . . . I'm loaded for bear. But every day piddly little things, I'd rather hide my head in the sand, then cause a stink. Sigh.
A couple of years back, with my hair hanging limply past my shoulders, sporting it's newly developed shades of white and grey firmly dispersed among the red, I sat at dinner bemoaning the foibles of old age when along strolled a waitress from another table. I hopped up and stopped her dead in her tracks, demanding to know where she got her hair cut. Startled, but game, she sat down with Frank and I and wrote down the name of the salon. I was in heaven. She had the very same cropped bob I had been searching for. Hooray. The next day, I headed over there to make an appointment. I asked the only person there who was the creative spirit behind Emily's do. She said she was . . . well she and the owner. So I made an appointment. What I should have done was listen with my inner ear to the . . . and the owner part. So as she is lopping off my hair, she discovers my natural curl, something I have happily buried for the last 50+ years. A little glaze and a lot of missing hair later, I walked out all newly red and curly all over. Hum, what happened to my bob. I'd been side tracked and now I looked like Little Orphan Annie. ACK. So the second time I go back, I take a magazine with a picture of what I want. Needless to say, it ended in the garbage as "the stylist" knows best. Grrrrr. I walked out with Daddy Warbucks and Sandy, one on each side. Yesterday, I went in to set up an appointment with the owner and ran smack into "the stylist". After mumbling some inanities, I stutter something about a previous appointment and hit the trail. Rapidly.
Today, after lunch, I drag Frank into my favorite spa while I book a massage for next week. In talking to the receptionist, I start asking her about glazing and bobs and she defers to "Tiffany". So I spill my tale of woe and she grabs me by the hand and heads around the corner to show me a cut she had just finished. My bob, it was MY BOB. Perfecto. So now I have an appointment with Tiffany for her to work her magic and as long as we get the color under control, it's adios to the cast of Annie and I have found a new home. Fingers crossed. Head out of the sand. Hooray.
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Amazing what we will put up with, isn't it? I still have nightmares about my first perm ::shudder::
My hair was past my shoulders, and because it was still nice and thick, and heavy, it looked much straighter than it normally is. I made a specific point of telling the stylist not to leave the rods in too long. He ignored me and my beautiful long hair ended up in tight curls above my ears. Forget Little Orphan Annie....I looked like a freakin' poodle!! What's worse, I didn't have the gumption or confidence to refuse to pay...I was only 23. In fact, it was my birthday! I cried for weeks after...had to wash, blow-dry and use the hot rollers every day. Needless to say, I never went back to that salon. And I have only ever had one other perm since then...with a stylist who had been doing my hair for 3 years and whom I trusted!
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