Every woman knows that a hairdresser is like a good bra. When you find the right one, you stick with it.
Now that I've moved, my old hairdresser is just too far away. I need a replacement. Last week, I drove around looking for a salon without grannies in curlers and without $7.99 specials and settled on one. They set up an appointment with Lenny.
Dressed in black with arm tattoos, Lenny clucked at me for my shoulder length hair. It should be at least four inches longer. Much more glamorous. I tried to explain to him my Tina Fey look and the two kids and work and all, but he wasn't interested in my life style. I walked out of there with hair that should really accompany a set of fake boobs. It was flat ironed straight and angled along the side, so that I can't see. There is a mop of hair in front of my eyes.
Which would explain what happened next. After a trip to Starbucks, Ian and I were strolling down the block of a neighboring town wasting time until we had to pick up Jonah from the bus. As we passed a fancy stationery store, a store clerk beckoned us in to show us a toy. I guess it was a slow day. Ian bent down to watch the car and then abruptly picked up a Christmas ornament on a nearby table, shouted "ball," and shattered it on the ground. A $30 ornament.
How did I let this happen? Not only did he move extremely fast, but I was having trouble seeing him because of Lenny's extreme hair make-over. Lenny is going to get the bill for that.