Too Long Between Cuts

I have thick hair. Unruly, will not stay straight, stick your finger in a light socket frizzy, disobedient, unmanageable hair.

I'm going to get a haircut this afternoon with my hairdresser Frank, who for years, I thought was gay because he is a MAN who works in a hair salon. Three years after finding out, um, no he's not and since then he's had two adorable looking children and I'm still kicking myself in the ass for being so assumptive and judgmental.

I'm appreciative that he keeps me on as a client because he is the only person on this planet who can tame the massive triangle forming around my head into something resembling an actual hairstyle.

Frank will blowdry my hair straight and it will be smooth, and shiny and silky to the touch and I will be petting myself on the head regularly for the next several hours just because it feels so good.

And when I wash my hair I will be sad because the soft flatness of it will be gone and it won't have hugged me or told me that it loved me or wished that it, too, could stay forever.

There will be tears after it's all over. And ice cream. Lots of ice cream.