Cock-a-doodle-do

I am a big old chicken. I don't like the girl that is cutting my hair. She is a girl, not a woman. I am not sure she is even out of high school yet. You are right. She has to be. But when I am sitting in that chair, I feel older than dirt. It isn't a good feeling. I pay big bucks to sit in that chair for two hours. I should walk away feeling like a million dollars. That was my sign. My other sign was that she was trying to make me a brunette. And that ain't happening. So I am leaving her.

I am in the process. Most woman form tight bonds with their stylists. I have had two really good ones. My last stylist left me for another place too far away. So I am on the hunt. The salon assigned me to this chica and my gut says I must keep looking. I made an appointment in my town with a place down the street. It was almost as pricey but I left feeling like I was overpaying for the experience. (Notice how I am avoiding all use of salon names here! Protecting myself in case I go back!)

So I want to stay with my fancy salon but I don't want "Alice" to know that I am leaving her. I just called and made an appointment with Alice, casually asking what days she works. I will then cancel my appointment and make it was some Jane Doe on her day off. Cross your fingers! I hope I find someone good. We used to tease my Dad that he was never happy with any barber or stylist in town. I am starting to feel like my dad. I wonder if he found someone yet. Or if he is as big as a chicken as I am about leaving them. And if you know someone at a big salon in a nearby city at a shopping complex, let me know who you like. It might just work out. But keep it on the down low. I am a chicken.