I was supposed to have gotten my hair cut and colored on May 8, but I was still battling diverticulitis and had to cancel my appointment. I called my stylist and broke into sobs as I left a message telling her I was too sick to make the 45 minute drive to Blountstown.
She called the next day to reschedule my appointment and I believe I detected a note of wariness in her voice. I can’t say I blame her. What kind of loon cries when she cancels a haircut? Her earliest opening was on the 31st, and I’m counting the minutes until I look like me again instead of this shaggy gray crone I see when I look in a mirror.
Part of me is a little worried that she’ll have the men in white coats waiting to carry me away. Hey, as long as she cuts and colors my hair first, I’m fine with that. I’ll be the best coiffed chick in the home.