Friday, November 15, 2013

don't have time for that

It was summer. Hot. The door was open, the setting sunlight shone on her through the open door. It was my time. I felt it.

Walked in to the salon and had the best haircut in 5 years. Everyone said so.

I hate getting my hair cut; but she was fast, cheap, and good.

She had pink hair and we talked about when she took care of her grandmother as she died. I probably reminded her of her grandmother. We talked about angels.  I found a fab hair person.

This week, with much giddy anticipation I made an appointment for a trim. Finally the day was here, here! Haircut!

I arrived several minutes early. OK, 20 minutes early. Settled into the leopard print banquette with my smartphone and relaxed: read newspaper, emails, and spiritual journal. Checked the time every 10 minutes, glanced at my stylist as she worked on the head of a platinum blonde. Almost done? Surely they were almost done. Wash, cut, pile on top, dry, fluff, straighten, smooth, omg how long is this going to take? Kept reading, kept glancing. It's my time! Are you done? Almost done? It's my turn!

Minutes ticked by. I got restless. 5 minutes, 10, 11. My hands went to my keys, to my coat. I put on my coat. The owner looked around, "Oh."

"I'll come another time," I said.

"Want to make another appointment right now?"

"I'll call," I said. "Maybe," I thought, and left. 

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