It’s kind of ironic that my daughter is a hair stylist, because I was never really that interested in hair. I tease her that she gets all that talent from her father. In fact, the less I have to mess with my hair, the better.
I’ve told my own stylist many times, if I can’t do it with one hand and a blow dryer, well it ain’t happenin’ folks. And this is the truth. I have hurt myself so many times with a hot curling iron I’ve lost count. I’ve permed my hair twice in my life and both times it was a BIG MISTAKE. In fact, if anyone ever hears me talking about it in the future, just slap me, and say, “No, Paula! No.” Yes, it looks that bad.
My stylist, who I have known since high school, knows me pretty well. She knows that I get in these goofy moods where I will get bored with my hair, and then get an idea and head over to the salon to “git ’er done.” I will tell her what I want, or show her a picture, and ask her if she can get my hair to do that.
And she is good. She knows that this mood will pass, and I might not be quite as excited at the idea I am presenting in a few more days, a week, or a month. So she talks me into a compromise. “Let’s just do this much,” she says, “and if you like that, then we can do the rest another time.” So if it’s a drastic cut or color, we go halfway, and it works out pretty well. I just get a big kick out of how she knows this and knows how to diffuse what could end up being a pretty bad decision. She’s awesome, and I am lucky to have her.
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