|Always stressful, but grown-ups don't cry until they get home.|
For me, having feral hair is far less painful than enduring the small talk with the stylist, the Naziesque brutality of the shampoo girl, and the final indignations of hair spray application and painstaking blow-drying of the mass of protein filaments growing from follicles in the dermis of my scalp into something it will never, ever look like again, just for the sake of "art."
Now I'm hooked. I already made my next hair appointment, and even one for a pedicure, something I haven't done in at least fifteen years since seeing a report on 60 Minutes about a woman who contracted a staph infection from a pedicure and eventually had to have her leg amputated at the knee. I shared this story with Denise and she swore up and down that I would be fine, taking me on a tour of the facilities and showing me how they sterilize everything between customers. Her final promise won me over: "If you do have your leg amputated because of a pedicure you got here, I promise I will come to your house for the rest of your life and cut your hair." Now that's what I call a deal.