Don’t shit where you eat

This afternoon I made an appointment at a new salon, with an unknown stylist. You might ask, “why on earth would a soon to be 37 year old go randomly to a new person?”

Shmuck in one word but let me explain.

Once upon a time, I went to a woman for several years who cut my hair. One day, I got a hair up my arse and thought, “I’m not happy overpaying for my hair color with XYGAY, let me her.” Lo and behold, she was horrific and I was left with a huge dilemma: now what?

Certainly I wouldn’t go back to her for color, and try explaining to the person cutting your hair that you like the 2 inch roots– wouldn’t fly. I was left no choice but to find both a new colorist and cutter.

Flash forward: I finally got a new colorist and today I got an appointment at 3 o’clock sharp.

At precisely 3:01 pm I wanted to quickly leave but the heavy set woman before me, tatoos and earrings galore had already started to pry off my coat.

With a sinking feeling of doom as if being led into Clarice’s cage, I sat uncomfortably in the shampoo chair.

Smelling a combo of both B.O. and Dirty breath, I tried not to breathe as this non-professional molested my hair. She was washing as slow as could be and I began to feel dirty; very dirty. I felt violated and kept wondering if she washed her hands at all today and why she stunk so bad. Had she not been such a freaky mammoth I might have enjoyed the intrusive hair massage, but I was skeeved.

With only one other patron in the salon, I tried to make eye contact with him when I realized his obsessive tendancies with his own cutter. Listening and watching this gent as he stare endlessly into the mirror to determine if the hair behind his ear was 1/3 milimeter or 1/25 milimeter, I realized I was not in Kansas anymore.

Feeling more and more grossed out by the way she stroked my hair dry, I knew I was getting it up the ass for shitting where I ate.

About Lady in Red

mom of 3
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