No, I just can't continue to blaspheme the exalted Spice Girls by coopting their song for my own selfish blogging purposes. But, as I discovered tonight, there are certain criteria. I'll have to wait until I get my Little Orphan Annie Ovaltine Decoder Ring before I can know in advance who can be trusted with ma coiffure.
Tonight, I can only speak to J. You know who you are.
For one thing, please don't giggle. I understand, the world is a funny, funny place. We can share our mirth another time. Occasional breaks in giggles to pop your gum - alarming close to my hair, by the way, thanks - were appreciated, but not quite sufficient to convince me that you're in line for the next Mensa entry test.
For another, please don't, don't, DON'T stop mid-cut and say, "Oops!"
I do owe you an apology, because you're a beauty school student and you're nervous and self-conscious and I understand that you need to chatter (and giggle) to keep yourself from going all Day-O and ending up face-first in a bowl of shrimp cocktail, and here I was, chatting away with Betty, who was at the next station and who I would totally have asked to cut my hair again if I'd known she was there tonight. She did a great job the last few times, and my preferring to speak to another adult about semi-intelligent topics? That totally does not reflect on your own personality, J.
Okay, yeah, it kind of does. But it doesn't mean I love you any less. And you did do a good job. I think, anyway. So that redeems you quite a bit.
While we're on the "do not" list, please don't lie to your instructor when I'm sitting right here, close enough that I can vouch that your Secret is strong enough for this woman. You did NOT cut the back first, and you did NOT brush it all forward to check the ends before she came over. I didn't rat on you, because you won't see me putting Baby in a corner, but still. It makes me feel yucky inside, all complicit with your schemes and manipulations.
And one last thing. Please don't sing along with the radio while you're doing my hair. Because, those big skin-covered things sticking out of the sides of my head? Those are my ears. They do some funny things, ears. Like, hear.
Anyway. It could have been worse. I'm not all spaced-out Ferris Bueller Cameron-zoning out, so I think I've avoided significant trauma.
What do you think?
