Salon life

I must have misunderstood the stylist who gave me my first haircut because I tend to go every six months as opposed to every six weeks. This winter, it hardly matters when one’s hair is thoroughly and perpetually  flattened by a hat that does one no favors. Lately though, I’ve been getting my hair cut more often. I blame it on the dog.

Before I’m even in the door to the salon, a clump of white fur runs over to greet me—a receptionist in the form of a shih tzu. I have no idea if it’s a shih tzu, but harken back to middle school days and it’s fun to say. While waiting for Maria to finish with her client, Sampson and I read trashy magazines we’d never be caught dead with in public. We learn that J Lo’s dating Ben Affleck, and Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt have broken up. Before I can shake off my disbelief, I’m in the chair and getting my hair trimmed into a style that no one will see till spring.

I’m under the ancient space age hair dryer now, like an 80-year-old widow who just got her weekly perm. I feel kind of ridiculous until Maria directs the dog to my lap. He jumps up and settles himself on my lap.

“Tell Sampson your woes,” Maria tells me.

Sampson looks at me, patient.

Me in 40 years


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