The Haircut

OK, I told you about the haircut from Hades that sent me running to a new hairdresser.  The first couple of cuts from the newbie were great. The last was abysmal.  Tomorrow I am giving her one chance to make good.

I no longer have the long, thick sometimes-auburn locks of my teens. My platinum epidermal cover (thanks, old Thesaurus) has thinned considerably. It needs layers to lift it, six-week trims to keep it fluffy and special shampoo to make it shine. Occasionally it needs something to squeegie out the yellow from my ever-present hairspray without turning it blue.

The haircut makes all the difference. Too short, I resemble Telly Savalas in the Twilight Zone episode before he shaved his head. Too long, I resemble Mick Jagger. You know what I mean, but I won't say it lest I get sued.

I need five minute hair. Wash, brush, spray. No curling iron, no gel or mousse. I rarely touch it up during the day except to give it a tussle. I like it soft, silvery as a new dime and volumized enough to keep the scalp from showing. One more vanity trophy for me.

So, Sue repaired the nails I had let go too long. I checked this a.m. and there is no moustache. My eyebrows need work (next time, Sue, I promise). As long as I only look in the mirror from the chin up, I don't look so bad for an almost-senior citizen.

Mrs Hairstylist, you've got one more shot.

Make me HOT!!