I'm chic, hip and trendy
Ok, maybe it's more like cheap, hippy and trend-less. But by gawd, my hair looks goooooood.
(I might post a photo or two when Zig gets home tonight.)
Not being from this area and not having any friends here, one of my biggest problems has been finding someone who can cut my hair the way I want it. The minute I find someone who can come close, they promptly leave for greener pastures, leaving me floundering again for a decent hairstylist.
There's a haircut floatin around out there that I've been lusting after for probably close to two years now. My daughter's hair is cut that way...sorta. Her s/o's sister's hair is cut in exactly the style that I've been so hot for. But they both live about 250 miles from here...not exactly handy to run and get a quick haircut when the mood strikes me.
I've gotten my hair cut probably six or seven times in the last couple of years. EVERY time, I try to explain to the little chickie/s what I want. I even show 'em pictures. EVERY time, I'm disappointed. Some get close...some are waaaay off. But NOBODY'S ever got it right. This last time...geeeezus....I got home and discovered it looked like somebody put a bowl on my head and just whacked my hair off. So I went back and had someone else "fix" it, again tellin her what I wanted. Uh huh. She "fixed" it, alright. I got back home, whacked on it myself and THEN had Ziggy help when HE got home.
So anywho, today I'm in the mood to get a haircut. Yea, I'm a glutton for punishment, ok? But I wanna get it spiffed up before vacation, ya know? I absolutely LOVE the convertible, but it's hell on my thick hair. So, I pick a completely different joint...and I lucked out. I walked in, told the gal what I wanted, showed her a picture and she says, "I think I know just what you want."
I've gotta admit...I was a bit...apprehensive when I looked at her. She looks all of 22 years old, gorgeous and probably wears a size 3 on her worst premenstrual day. And her hair? Uh. Well. I'm not sure how many colors were in her spiked up, streaked up coif...probably four or five. But hey...she was friendly and she said she knew what I wanted. 'Course, they've all said that.
BUT SHE DID!
Boy...did I ever get the full 'treatment'. Something that I never got at the other place. Full shampoo with an absolutely decadant scalp massage; pleasant chit-chat; a great cut and....A STYLE. She put this awesome-smellin stuff on my hair, dried it, styled it, flat-ironed it, trimmed it again, poofed it and fussed with it...I was in heaven. I looooove it when someone messes with my hair. She didn't stop until she was completely satisfied with it...and she made sure I was happy.
Gawd...was I HAPPY!
Yea, it cost about twice as much as the cheapie joint. Just another example of 'ya get whatcha pay for', I guess. And of course, I hadda have a little bottle of the outrageously expensive, great-smellin "silk reconstructing complex" stuff that makes my hair feel like...well...like silk.
Lemme tell ya...I'm positively ticked to death. And I feel gooooood.
I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that I was extremely happy with the whole experience. She was tickled that I was so happy. But then, she got this funny look on her face when I made her sign an agreement...in blood...and made her swear on the life of her firstborn child...that if she left there and went somewhere else to work, that she'd let me know.
Wonder why she locked the door when I left?