Like all women of a certain age who refuse to let their hair go "au naturale", I'm forced to visit the hair salon every three weeks to have touch ups on my roots. If not, I turn into Skunk Woman. The roots are blindingly white against my formerly natural reddish brown hair. My hair guy, Crazy D, (who's really not crazy...I just like to call him that because there are some who think he is) says I could wait longer between visits but when I look in the mirror, all I see is white where ever my hair parts. I wanted to go every two weeks but Crazy D refused to do it. He said there wasn't enough outgrowth (even though I see miles) and he was afraid it would do damage or some such nonsense. To me this speaks volumes about his character and ethics. After all, it would be way more financially beneficial to him if I went every two weeks.
So anyway, D has a new salon. Really nice place in a recently remodeled building with two other stores. One is still empty, and the other is a dog grooming shop.
Since gaining my inheritance....aka/Jasper.....aka/The Money Pit...aka/Little Cyclops...(as noted in a previous blog) I've been forced to use the services of a dog groomer. Originally I was taking the little guy to the same groomer he started with. The same groomer who made fun of me (rightly so) when I tried to clip him myself. I thought for convenience sake, I could take him to get his hair groomed right next door to my hair guy. We could both get our hair done at the same time. Great idea, right?? The guilt starts as soon as I make the first appointment. I'm being disloyal.
The new place is really big and nice, and doesn't smell like wet dog. There're really big kennels for the dogs to wait after they're done being prettied up. I try to make myself feel less guilty by telling myself it's better for the dog...I still feel guilty.
Anyway, I drop Jasper off at the new place, and go next door to get my roots colored. Both appointments usually take a couple of hours. I'm sitting there gabbing with Crazy D, and the other lady who rents a booth from him. She's new and I don't really know her but she seems nice enough. I always have a good time at D's. Not this time. After about half the color is applied to my head, in walks the old dog groomer with all three of her kids. The new lady is old groomer's hairstylist and she's here for haircut for the family. The ground didn't open up and swallow me and swallow me whole so I guess God didn't hear my prayers...or the answer was no...either way, I was so fucked...and totally sure I was being punished for being disloyal..
Sweat pours off of me under the plastic drape and I go instantly from laughing & joking to being weirdly silent. My happy switch has been turned off and I've turned into a paranoid freak on the verge of throwing up. I just know D is going to unknowingly spill the beans about my groomer infidelity. He doesn't know that this new customer is my old groomer & I'm terrified he's gonna let the cat out of the proverbial bag. To his credit, I think he put two & two together when she told the story of my inept clipping job... to which I manage a weak laugh agreeing that I was, indeed, stoopid to do it. Please God, I'm prayin', get me out of here. Again...no response. Maybe it would've helped if I'd gotten down on my knees, but at the time it seemed like that would only draw questions from the other people in the shop. It was the longest hair appointment of my life.
When it's finally over I manage stilted, barely audible good byes and practically run out the door. The three shops share a communal parking lot which all windows face. I find out, while calling from said parking lot...in the safety of my car, that Jasper isn't quite ready. So I drive out and decide to go to the grocery store to waste some time. Food is my comfort...it's also the reason my jeans are too tight...kind of a trade off.
Strolling the grocery isles I have a brief, albeit rare, flash of brilliance. I'll use the old entrance off the back street to get my dog. No one will see me. I feel physical relief when I think of this.. Duh, why didn't I think of this earlier instead of acting like a trapped rat??? After buying chips (Lays), chocolate (Dove), and Diet Pepsi to wash everything down with, I leave the comfort of the grocery store, drive down the side street and park in front of the building...and there I find a giant sign on the door that says "No Entrance"...and it's so far away from the other side of the building that even if I knock, there's no way anyone's going to hear me over all the fans, blow dryers, and barking dogs.
My mouth starts fill with saliva, like it does just before you barf...great, I think.. I'm gonna throw up, I know it. I tried to sneak around the side of the building on foot but there was a fence around the parking lot...and no gate. WTF???? How come there's never a fucking' building code when you need one? If it was me building a fence, I know there'd be some stoopid building code requiring a gate every ten feet. Or some equally idiotic and arbitrary rule requiring the fence be climbable so people wouldn't hurt themselves trying to break in. This was a wrought iron fence...with pointy things on top. Given my age and level of un-physical fitness, it was non-climbable.
So now it's time to put on the big girl panties, suck it up, and drive back into the parking lot. Act like an adult. I manage to disguise myself by resting my elbow on the door and shielding my face from the sun with my hand. I'm sure nobody recognized me. I get out of my car and make my way into the groomers shop boldly walking to the central staircase connecting the three shops looking down nonchalantly the entire way while digging frantically in my purse for absolutely nothing. Aside from the hyperventilating and sweat covering my upper lip, I'm sure I looked perfectly normal.
The groomer, a young gay kid whose name I don't even know gasps in horror when I tell him my woeful tale of groomer infidelity. I don't even know this poor kid and here I am babbling like an idiot to him. I wonder what he thought? He actually gasped in horror, literally, the way you'd imagine only a gay guy could...complete with his hand over his mouth, eyes bugging out..I nearly laughed out loud...it was almost worth the whole adventure.
The last and most ridiculous thing I did. I kid not. I tried to hide the dog under my shirt when I left and walked down to my car. Now, even for a small dog, he's way too big to fit under my shirt as evidenced by the fact that his feet and tail were sticking out. The only part I was able to cover was his head and neck. Why would I even attempt that?
Why am I such a weenie about this stuff? Why can't I change groomer's if I want to? It's my money, isn't it? So why do I feel guilty and disloyal?
God forbid I ever think I need a new hair stylist. I'd feel so disloyal I'd have to move to another town just to avoid running into him, otherwise I'd be living in a constant state of paranoia. I'm actually starting to feel ill just thinking about it... it's the stoopidist thing.
P.S. I wonder what the dog thought when I shoved him under my shirt?