I try to avoid being a guilt-ridden person by avoiding doing the type of things that will instill a sense of latent guilt...like cheating on my hairdresser.
I didn't mean for it to happen, I swear. I mean, it actually hasn't happened yet...I mean, I only made an appointment; it's not really cheating until you go all the way and let them plunge their scissors into your wild mane.
I know it's wrong. There's a reason why I have stuck with the same hairdresser(s) for the past year...a) they are my friends and b) they do a damn good job. My hair is like a bipolar teenager - it needs discipline, love, structure. It needs a caring set of hands. And, truth be told, I already have those in Steph and Lowry.
But, alas, temptation has struck. I stepped into the Origins store the other day and the salesgirl rushed over to try some new treatment on my hands. I let her, because I had time to kill and a free hand massage never hurt anyone. It was good, it was fine...but her hair....it was magical, full of perfect ringlets falling gently against her cheekbones. I didn't want the gooey crap she was slathering on my paws...I wanted her hair.
Me: So....thanks. My hands, uh, feel good...
Perky Salesgirl: GREAT! LET'S GET YOU A BASKET SO YOU CAN CRAM IT FULL OF OVERPRICED LOTIONS RIGHT NOW!!!
Me: Uh, sure. So, anyway....what products do you use on your hair?
PS: Oh! (looks to her left and then to her right and adopts a hushed tone) Well...I actually use products from the salon I go to....a salon for women with curly hair...
Me: (HOLY SHIT! Did she just say "a salon for women with curly hair"? I AM A WOMAN WITH CURLY HAIR!!!) Um...WOW. I want to go there. Right now.
PS: (still speaking in a barely audible voice; visibly nervous) Ummmm....ooooookay. I'll write down the information....tell them I sent you. It's like a cult over there...they don't let anybody in....
A curly-haired cult? Finally, a place I belong!!!
I rushed over to the address she provided. The door was marked with only a swirl of paint - a curl. The secret symbol.
I asked the doorman how I should enter the sacred chamber of curly locks, and he showed me to a side hallway...which lead to a frosted door....which led to another curved hallway...which led down two flights of steps...and then....the antechamber. Filled with women with curly hair.
Oh my god. It was a like a Sci-Fi flick; like Amazon Women Of Curlvania or something. Redheads. Brunettes. Blondes. Some with highlights. Some with short curls. Some with long curls. And all curls in between. I was saved. I ran up to the counter.
Me: I have curly hair. I was sent here. (Yes, I said that. Exactly that. Do you think I make this shit up?)
Desk Lady With Undiscernable Accent But Perfect Curls: Yessssss...
Me: I want an appointment! PLEASE!!!
DLWUABPC: (eyeing me with suspicion)You were sent here? Hmmm....by who? Oh, okay......zen we will get you an appointment in ze calendar....
She handed me my little grey appointment card and I headed back into the sunshine, suddenly a much happier person. I had found my people, the ones who understood my genetic disposition for frizz. I was saved.
It was when I got home that I started feeling guilty. I am cheating on Steph. She will never speak to me again when she finds out that I made an appointment with another stylist. She loves my hair curly. She cut it curly. She knows curls, too. Uhhhh....shit.
I considered cancelling the appointment. I considered 'fessing up to Steph when I saw her at brunch today. But I did neither. Instead, I kept that goddamned hair appointment and the curl masters are going to do brilliant things to my hair and it's gonna look really nice and shiny and stuff and you can't stop me.
(This is okay with you, right Steph? Pretty please?)