Hair Slut

I have to confess this - out loud, in writing, whatever! I cheated.

I had a what I hope to be the wonderful beginnings of an affair this morning. It was scheduled by that pimp Charles Penzone. My husband even paid for it! Yes, friends, I cheated on my hairdresser. Oh, the shame.

It started innocently enough. We, like the rest of the country, are tightening our belts. One of the things to go on my list was the $45 haircut (let us not even discuss the price of keeping up the delusion that this is my natural color...). So, I had grown long, and shaggy and, disturbingly, poofy, not unlike a Chia Pet.

Then, lo, during the wondrous holiday of Chrismukka not one but TWO gift cards to Charles Penzone salons and spas were bestowed unto me by. Those close to me (and now, I guess, you) know that I am a fool for the hot stone massage. Why bother with a human touch when you can be rubbed into oblivion by greasy rocks? Wait a tick, that is actually MUCH better than it sounds, but I digress. The gift cards were given for the purpose of said massaging, but my hair is just about as bad off as my nerves these days, so I opted for a "cut and design" instead.

Oh, the thrill of being someplace I shouldn't have been - the chair of another hair diva. I mentioned my relationship to the new girl. Like all Charles Penzone "working girls", she clearly had no conscience, because the mention of my old girl didn't phase her. I was a paying customer and she would give me what I wanted, darn it!

And she did. The results are fantastic. I love the new, more textured 'do. I had been with my old hair diva for almost 8 years. (Criminy - a time period I am now realizing coincides with how long I have been married. While I am completely satisfied with my husband, I had a wandering eye when it came to my hair.) I'm not proud of the cheating, and feel as if I may run into my old hair diva on the street with my new, short cut and she'll brand a bright red "A" upon my chest.

But it feels (and looks) so gooooooooood. ;)