When I called the salon yesterday, I was expecting to get an appointment later this week, but to my surprise, I got right in. It was a salon I've never been to before, and it was a salon not a Hair Cuttery or one of the other cheap places I usually go, so I was a little out of my element. (For one thing, I never know if I'm supposed to tip the shampoo person separate or if the stylist gives her a portion of his tip; does anyone know? I watched the woman before me and she didn't tip, so I figured I was safe, but what if she was just cheap?)
Anyway, the guy who cut my hair was very nice, and he obligingly asked the required questions: What do you do for a living? Are you from here? Are you married? Do you have children? I hate this kind of chit-chat. I'm really bad at it and I just don't really want to talk to strangers -- not cashiers, or servers, or mechanics. I just want them to do whatever it is they have to do, and I will be polite, but I don't necessarily want to be their best friend. Thankfully, this stylist seemed to feel the same way, and after I answered his questions with the required information, he went about silently cutting my hair.
There's something about a haircut that makes every muscle in my body tense up: Am I scared that moving around will ruin the process, or am I just that weird about the unnatural conversation? I don't know why, but there are always points when I discover that I am clenching my fists under that plastic cape or that my calves are tightened and my toes curled under. In the end, he did a nice job, but he did cut off more than I wanted (I didn't say anything -- what can he do? glue it back on? just like I'd never send food back in a restaurant, I'd never tell a stylist it's too short). It doesn't look bad; in fact, my husband said he really liked it, but it certainly is much shorter.
So last night I went for a run (after the sun set and the temp cooled some -- was still extremely humid) and I was able to pull the new 'do back with two elastics (pigtails) and one barrette, not bad. And it stayed back for the entire run (might be because the stylist had loaded me up with hairspray and gel when he styled my hair and those strands weren't moving for their life). Last night I showered after my run and went to bed with wet hair, so this morning it looks like I stuck my finger in the socket, but oh well. Scooter hasn't let out a frightened scream yet.