Dear Nice Lady Who Cuts My Hair

I know we don't hang out as much as you would probably like and certainly not as much as I probably need, but still, it's always good spending time with you. Even when you explain to your apprentice that I'm a Level 12 or 500 or some other ridiculous number because of the amount of premature gray hair I have, I still love you. Even when you chastise me for letting my hair "go" like this and suggest I wear hats more often, I still love you. Even when you explain that a blow dryer is "my friend" and not a weapon, I still love you. And when you mention that I have the freakiest texture ever? I still adore you.

The cape you let me borrow is so charming in a blousey, breezy, plastic kind of way. And nothing says "HOT" like forty pieces of tin foil sticking out of my head. Or better yet, hanging over my eyes so that when some better-soled broad says, "Msssss Piccckkket? Is that you under there?", I can say yes but still have no idea who I'm talking to.

When it's obvious that I'm wondering if all the other ladies have dressed-up to get their hair cut done, you always seem to sense my anxiety. That's when you kick off our celebrity gossip chat, which you know I will appreciate for the obvious reasons and also because it will keep my mind off the fact that my bag is pretty ugly and out of date compared to everyone else's. And rope bracelets are kind of "out."

Never mind, you silently say, as you lop off two inches of dead blond hair and cut long bangs ala Nicole Richie or some other young thing I pretend to know. You don't ask me about my kids (have you forgotten I have them? me too), but instead, we chat about bands we like and shows we're going to (you: Coldplay, me: Springsteen) and for a minute there, I feel entirely cool. You spin me around in the chair and I am beginning to see less of the paint on my shorts and more of the styled me I might be if I cared more. A few more snips and swipes, some expert blow drying, and voila! you've done it again: shinier, straighter, cleaner, milfier.

And to top it all off, you do not say one thing about my crappy bag (overstuffed and coffee-stained), but instead compliment my toe ring, an accessory that seems to be entirely lacking on typical clients. And I feel happy. And girly. And I have you to thank, Nice Lady Who Cuts My Hair.

When I swear that I won't shower for days to stay looking this hot, you laugh and think I'm funny, which is funny, because I really won't shower for days. But let's just keep that our little secret.

Love,

Ms. Picket