Early yesterday morning I decided to snip at my hair a bit. Sounds harmless, right? And then I step back and get a good look at it and I realize one whole side was now an inch shorter. Not good considering my hair is short to begin with. Of course I should have stopped there but of course you have to try to fix it, right?
No. That was wrong. Very wrong.
When Sam came home for lunch I begged HIM to fix it. He has cut my hair for the last 7-years and always does a great job. This time though, he took one look at it and flat-out refused.
"You are going to the salon."
Those words were the kiss of death.
For those that don't know I'm terrified of getting my hair done, and when I realized he wouldn't help me, what he was going to make me do, I started to cry.
He wouldn't back down, made the appointment for that night, and before you know it I was sitting in "the chair".
As you can tell, I lived to tell the tale. I now know that:
1) I am a big, big baby (okay, I already knew that), and
2) Those wonderful salon people know what their doing.
I love my new haircut! And I'm pretty sure I'll even go back! Sorry Sam! It looks like you lost your only long-time customer!
Something tells me he's not too disappointed!