I think I have to leave my hairdresser. Actually, I think she is trying to run me off. I’m not surprised though. No one likes to do my hair. I was born with a nightmare on my head. It didn’t start out that way though. Somewhere in my early teens it just went berserk. Without proper taming of the beast I tend to resemble a scared clown. All my life I have heard “Oh, what wonderful curly hair!” Uh huh, sure lady…. You haven’t seen it before the mousse and hairspray.
Last Thursday I had an appointment with magic fingers Kristi. She is the only hairdresser that has ever succeeded with my mop. I knew something was wrong when I walked in and she pretended not to know me. After I told her I had a 4:30 appointment with her she pretended to have forgotten and promised to be with me in twenty minutes. Ok, so I’m used to the brush off but I waited anyway. She finally called me over and began to work on my hair as she talked over my head to anyone but me. Yes, it was rude but it wasn’t my first experience with that either. After she had washed and cut my hair she began to style it. When she was finished she made sure that only Bozo the Clown could look worse than me. I guess I probably should have said something but I didn’t. I gave her my halfhearted smile as we locked eyes both of us knowing what she was doing. I went home and washed out the half a can of hairspray so that my head wouldn’t stick to my pillow and found that she had almost reached the hairstyle that I ask for. It was under the mess she had made.
I think maybe my Daddy was right. I do have “kind” hair. The kind that grows on a dogs butt.