Hairdressers.
They're either people you'd love or people you'd hold a grudge with.
I went to a reputable saloon a few nights ago. I was excited. I was anxious. After directing the lady very specifically, she began prepping my hair. And that moment her hands touched my hair, I apologized to my previous hairdresser.
As she combed pulled my hair like you would to feathers of a chicken, ignoring the constant clicks of my impatient tongue, I knew I was in deep mumbo jumbo.
Then the first cut.
I stared at the mirror.
(scissors snapped) "Wait a second."
(scissors snapped) "No.. no.. That wasn't 2 inches."
I sit there, my hair as a hostage. As the scissors continued its path of destruction, from the corner of my eye, on the floor, lay my hair 4 maybe 5 inches long.
(scissors snapped) "you..."
(scissors snapped) "you..."
(scissors snapped) "F*ck you bitch!!!"
"F*ck.... (scissors snapped) you..."
