I can’t say I was in love with my stylist in the city. If I had been, then I would have stayed on with her and commuted – I have always wanted to be one of those women who is all, Sandy-from-Grease “totally devoted to you” about her hair person.
But I was firmly in the “meh” camp about the whole thing: the cut was always fine, the color was always fine, the price was not horrifying (and that is important if the results are just “fine.”) So I kept going back.
It was just like every other urban relationship I had – I could put up with some hassle and some mediocrity if the location was walking distance, (or at least had good parking prospects.) God knows how many minor-ish annoyances I blew past in the early dating days with The Mr. using the internal argument “But he lives just a few blocks away!”
And that’s the thing. The hair stylist was good, but she was only “walking distance good.” Probably not even “out of the neighborhood trip” good, and DAMN sure not “commute worthy.” So I planned to just find someone out here through recommendations as we got settled.
It turns out that Stylist Ambivalence runs rampant in the ‘burbs.
I do have one friend who LOVES hers – but the stylist splits her time between Texas and here, and I am a last-minute appointment maker, so that “I’ll be in the salon during the 2nd week of next month” kind of sitch is a non-starter. It can only lead to sneaking around with other stylists on the DL while she is out-of-town, and an eventual slow, fade-away kind of break up sure to leave me sniffing around mall salons thinking “just this once can’t hurt, right?” WRONG!
What’s a girl to do?
I can’t lie, there’ve been some bang-trimming incidents in the master bathroom, (I’m not too bad with that, actually,) and some mildly demeaning Groupon/Living Social whoring around too. But I swore off the internet blind dating version of stylist hunting after a snafu involving a set of Taylor Swift bangs that were nothing any
36 year old er, over mid-twenty-something woman should ever attempt. Ever, Ever, Ever. Like, Ever.
I’m so desperate I have taken to random stalker attacks in public places, but they don’t end well either. (Sorry, supermarket cheese counter lady, I thought it would be complementary to say I liked your cut – NOT an opening for a rant about how “cheap your boyfriend is about stuff like that.” Also, I just don’t need any cheese for a while. I swear that is totally the only reason I run past you now. Swear.)
So my hair gets funkier every day.
Come to think of it – maybe that is what is up with all the moms in baseball caps with pony tails up here. Hmm.