Dear Awesome, Amazing, Beautiful Hairstylist,
It is with heavy heart and oceans of regret that I write to you. I should have called you last week, when my hair was first showing signs of misbehavior. I thought I could wait it out. And I really wanted to.
But after Austin Collie dropped his THIRD PASS IN A ROW, the third being actually IN THE END ZONE, I just snapped. I barely recollect exactly how I ended up at the local Hair Butcher, but before I could say “1980 National Championship,” I was in the car and on my way. I left in such a hurry that I didn’t even have lip gloss with me. That’s a sure sign that I was irrational.
The sheer magnitude of what I had brought upon myself by going to the local Hair Butcher hit when, as I was browsing through the hip City Weekly news-mag, a student of mine came in, asking for a haircut. When told it would be an hour wait, he said, “Nevermind,” and left. Which was really a blessing for both of us, because while I have nothing against said student, I am not his favorite person in the world, and sitting in the grungy, fluorescent-lighted waiting area would have been awk-ward.
When he left, dear beloved hairstylist, I noticed what the hair butchers were wearing. Sweats, leggings, frumpy as far as the eye could see. I took a deep breath and kept looking at the price sign. “$13.00” it reassured me…at least if I walked out looking like one of these guys,
I paid a pittance to do so.
But the hair cut wasn’t all THAT bad, although the trauma of the overall experience is seared upon my memory and I promise, promise, promise to never go there again! I only have eyes for you, for you are not a hair butcher, but a hair artist.
My hair doesn’t look anything like any of the members of A Flock of Seagulls, but it’s definitely not one of your creations, either. I’m so sorry I cheated. I’ve never had the stomach for infidelity, and now I know why.
I will see you in approximately 4-6 weeks.