wimp . . .

Now I know myself pretty well and while I am, on the whole, quite happy being me, I fall tremendously short on the confrontation front. I hate face offs in any way, shape or form. I will avoid them like the plague . . . run screaming the other way . . . hide under the bed . . . dig in my heels and generally behave worse than a two year old. And why do I bring this up? Because for the last three or four, maybe . . . seven months, I have been out of one particular hair product sold locally at only one salon. The one at which I used to get my hair done. And why don't I march right in, money in hand and purchase said product??? Because I am a wimp. And she scares me. There, I said it. The Brunhilda of the hair industry scares me.

She was the first person to color my hair and the first person to cut it so that it's natural curl was let loose. I loved it. Brunhilda was my idol. I had an outstanding cut and a no more gray. Perfect. But ever so slowly, as the years rolled by, it dawned on me that Brunhilda, queen of the snippers, was a tad, well . . . territorial and rigid. She had found my style and that was that. And while I wanted to tone down the red just a tad, Brunhilda wanted to up the wattage and up it she did. I was starting to resemble Bozo the clown. And when I suggested, magazine in hand, that it would be neat to have my hair stacked in a bob, she unceremoniously dumped said magazine in the trash amid a tirade of monumental proportions. No stacking for me. She had found my style whether I liked it or not . . . and I was definitely leaning toward not. I walked out of the salon for the last time in an orange haze of fluff . . . never to return.

As the gray started to inch its way back into my life and my hair started to sprout in twelve cowlick-y directions, I faced the monumental task of finding someone else to tame the tendrils. I was at a total loss. I have this problem letting someone whose hair has been bleached and processed beyond recognition, play with my hair. If that is the best you can do for yourself, you aren't coming near me . . . I was getting shaggier and grayer by the moment.

One day, I walked into the salon where the 9TS keeps me in massage certificates and bemoaned my fate. The receptionist motioned for this waif to come forward and I poured out my soul. She grabbed me by the hand, directed me to a perfectly cut stacked bob and announced she had just finished it. Oh, happy day. My hair is the color and cut I like.

But I have run out of Phytocurl and while I can buy it on line, I hate paying exorbitant shipping fees. So today I am going to venture forth . . . courage screwed up . . . into the den of Brunhilda . . praying it is her day off. Wish me luck.

EDIT: Brunhilda was in and in rare form. After her initial hello, she lost it. Announced to whomever that she was tired of designing styles only to have them stolen by others. Huh? Then proceeded to tell me my cut was so-so but my hair was dull. "Are you coloring it yourself?" ROFL. Poor Brunhilda, she does have an Achilles heel after all. I grabbed my bottle of goodness and sprinted back to my car. I am woman, hear me meow!