It's Only My Hair (aka where my granddaughter gets it from)

Today was my hair appointment.

Love my hairdresser, love her work, been going to the same salon for three years, so why do I feel the need to reintroduce my hair to her at every visit?

“I’d like it short, but not too short, more than a trim, but I don’t want someone to think it’s been cut, more like it’s neater” I say.

“Okay, got it.” She says “You still like the color?”

“Yes, it’s great. But do you think you can add more blonde here?” I say pointing to my sides.

“Sure I can” she patiently replies.

“How about a bit more lowlights here” as I point to the front.

“Sure, but I thought you liked the color?” she asks.

“Oh I do! I just thought maybe it needed a little something different.”

“Alright, well let’s get started” she replies.

I sit there reading quietly as she adds foil to my head. I swear I am tuning into a radio station because I can faintly hear “La Bamba”.

When all the foils are in, another lady leads me back to “the bowls” depositing me in the capable hands of the bowl girl.

Hair glosser is applied, a plastic bag covers my hair and ears.

“Cajun shrimp?” I hear a voice ask me.

“Excuse me?” I ask. Is someone taking my lunch order?

“Cajun shrimp?” I realize it’s the lady sitting next to me.

“Cajun shrimp?” She asks again, motioning toward my toes.

“Oh! Yes, it’s Cajun Shrimp by OPI.”

“Thought so. Me too” pointing at her toes.

The bowl girl comes back to rinse the glosser.

Now for the chemical treatment that is supposed to soften your hair and even has sunscreen in it.

An hour later, yes ONE HOUR LATER, I am led back to the chair for the cut. This has been a very productive reading session, I’ve made it through at least 80 or 90 pages of my book.

I sit down at my hairdresser’s station with my wet just been glossed and chemed hair. My hairdresser comes back and pulls a comb out of a drawer.

“I part my hair over here.” I helpfully say.

“Same as before?” she replies

Hmmmmmmm…. I think. Do I detect a tone?


“I like a bit of a bang but not too much”.

“Okay” snipping away.

I don’t think she heard me, but she does have scissors in her hand and it's near lunch time, maybe she’s hungry.

The blow dryer goes on and there is no way I can hear her or vice versa.

She’s done, she fluffs, and snips a bit more, and this time she’s really done.

It’s perfect!

She knows me so well!