The Breakup

I fired my hairdresser yesterday. It was like breaking up with my last boyfriend. The look on his face almost made me change my mind, but one quick look back in the mirror sealed my resolve.

Here's the deal: I like my hairdresser a lot. He's adorable, loves dogs, has great stories, invites me to parties, and his shop is within walking distance of my office. Also, he's patient with me and he gives a great head massage. And he's accomodating with appointments and he's not outrageously expensive, and he listens to good music.

But I don't trust him. When he cuts my hair, I sit with my hands clenched under the cape, scrutinizing his every move with the scissors. I've been letting my hair grow out since a moment of insanity three years ago when I cut my long hair very short on a whim. I understand the "in-between stage" and the "growing out phase" more than I care to. But I also want a consistently good haircut, and I'm not getting that. He doesn't cut with confidence, and he doesn't seem to be helping my hair get through its various stages of growth. Apparently, his idea of growing it out meant cutting it short again and starting over.

And maybe I'm overreacting, but yesterday was just more than I could take. My hair looks stupid. You know your hair is bad when people say, "Well, it'll grow." And I know it will, but right now, I hate it.

My secretary, bless her heart, told me this morning that the only difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut is two weeks. Unfortunately, I think it's going to take longer than two weeks for this disaster to grow out. In the meantime, please don't look at my hair.