Define:long

My good friend J gave me a gift certificate to my favorite spa for Giftmas. Awesome. I made a facial appointment for today, since R's mom was watching AB for 25 hours starting Saturday morning at 9:00. Even more awesome-er.

The appointment was pure bliss. The woman, Cara, did everything right. The sales pitch was barely audible over the din of my relaxation. Wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that when I went to pay I launched the same credit card I always use and paid in full. Later that night at Starbuck's I look in my wallet and there is that damn gift card, nestled and resting with the all the other cards. Suck. That I have to go back isn't bad, but that was just stupid. I don't tolerate stupid well, as you know if you've read more than one page of these blog entries.

So I'm all greasy and languid from the facial and I look at my hair and decide it's over; I've got to get it cut. I need to wash it again today anyway from the spa oils. It's been months. I'm all shaggy. So instead of planning, making an appointment, and going to see David, my favoritist hairstylist in the world, I swing by a locally owned and operated salon with very little wait. See how smart I am? Uh huh.

So she calls my name and I walk over with her. She is very nice. Says I can put my purse on her table/shelf/whatever. It's covered in hair. I nearly shuddered as I placed my beloved designer bag on it. So shallow, but there it is. Don't worry, it escaped the situation unharmed. It didn't even get a 90's haircut like its owner.

She took me back and shampooed my nasty hair. Asked me in broken English what I wanted. "A trim and long layers." Soooo easy and simple and full of short, third-grade words. I'm guessing she didn't understand me, and I don't speak Yiddish, nor did she listen well enough to realize she didn't understand me and get clarification. She shakes out the apron and I am coated in a fine ash of cut hair. Yum. She starts cutting. I close my eyes and try to remain still while hair tickles my neck and face.

She completes the trim. We're halfway home. Then she cuts another layer into my hair about three f*cking inches shorter. Is that a LONG layer, stupid hair lady, or a SHORT layer? I sit there and stare at what she is doing, unable to believe I'm about to get a "Jennifer." She gave me what Ms. Aniston made famous about, oh, eight years before she made it cool to be a deserted wife. That's not the worst of it. She cuts that super-short layer into my already thin and fine hair, right? I thought it was over. Then she dries it and trims a teeny bit off the front left side while dry. I'm thinking, that's a nice touch. It might offset how short half my hair is if she does it right. She looks disappointed when I quickly refuse her offer of bangs. Is this 1992, crazy hair lady?

Then she goes over the the other side and proceeds to hack off a lock about three inches long. I scream "NO! NO NONONONO!" in my head, and gasp in horror as it falls onto the apron, small and dead, but all that comes out is a weak, "no, no, no." She says, sorry, I was just making it even with the back. That's foreign-speak for tapering it into the longer layer, which shouldn't have been necessary if you understood the meaning of the word LONG. I say forget it, it's fine. I sulk while she finishes (it looks like shit the way she styles it, of course), pay, put my hair in a ponytail, and stomp to my car.

It's just hair, who freaking cares. It'll grow out. The irony here is that I had a shorter lock just like that a little bit ago, a lock that pretty much JUST finished growing out. It bothered me ALL DAY LONG. I spent the whole day putting it behind my ear, which makes me look vain and makes that strand cling together from finger oil accumulation. I did not even try, however, in my native tongue to get this across to her foreign ears. Nor did I launch into how it all needs to go into a ponytail and stay there so I am not pestered by it while I run. Hence the term: LONG LAYERS.

I can make it work, but I'm pissed. I look like Farrah Fawcett.

...

More irony? Can you handle more irony? All the shit she put in my hair smelled SO BAD that I had to wash my hair again later. So I could have just scheduled an apppointment with my beloved David, and washed it at home that day. Course, I got all icky and needed a shower from de-hairing a sofa we're donating to R's sister's BF, but that's not relevant. The entire time while I'm straining and vacuuming nasty cat hair off the sofa, the floor and curtains behind the now-relocated sofa, and everything in between I'm smelling that nasty crap that smells like what my sister uses. I hate that smell. It was awful. You'd think I had a bad day the way I'm making all this sound, but I was listening to my iPod while vacuuming, and let me tell you that really helps.

Then there was a great date later, interrupted by an annoying yet successful production outage at midnight (working on the weekend, nothing bettah), but overall it was a spectacular 25 hours. AB was so sweet when we picked her up. She talked to us the whole way back, and really put some advanced thoughts together Sunday.* She also drew her first drawing that really looked like what she intended, and frankly looked like a 4-year-old drew it. She is a really, really cool kid.

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*Some AB quotes:

"Mommy, Daddy and me make.... family"

"I'm Daddy's poodee-butt." (Response to "Are you my poodee-butt?")

"I know that it will get old." (Sad voice, worried about not finishing her couscous. I put the leftovers back with the others so she could eat them later.)

"One time, Aunt sat in that seat." (Talking about how Daddy was in the backseat with her. She proceeded to recall something Aunt said while sitting in the back with her.)