I head in for an expensive haircut. I know it’s a lot and I go more often than I need to. I love that they take my coat, hand me magazines and make me coffee, several cups. I’m going to see how much my roommate charges to do this for me.
After a good amount of negotiation with my hairdresser, we agree to cut off more than an inch. She says,
“Your boyfriend is going to cry.”
“As long as he doesn’t break up with me.”
Because as we know from last year we are headed into the peak season for break-ups. Plus in kindergarten the boy of my dreams dumped me after I cut my hair. I’m still recovering.
As I’m about to get my hair washed, a woman in her sixties marches in. She apologizes for having been gone for a year, but not to worry, now she’s back. She stands in the middle of the salon and proclaims,
“I’m really sorry, I just haven’t been feeling well. I’ve had a urinary tract infection for a week.”
From every side of the salon people start trading urinary tract infection stories.
I’ll take another coffee please.