"It's because of the hair"

Okay, so I know it's been forever since I last wrote. I have had people emailing and calling me to make sure I'm alright. Thank you for the thoughts and for checking in. I am fine. A little hectic. A little crazy. A little scarred. But, still fabulous. And still waking up smiling every morning in this amazing city.

So, for my first blog in a very long time, let's focus on something exciting, that will have you on the edge of your seat, hanging on every word: my hair. Hehe....that's right. I did it. For the first time in a VERY long time, I took the plunge and decided to trust someone else with my hair. Anyone who knows me at all, just gasped in complete shock. And got a little nervous. And, probably, for a slit second, reached for their cell phone to call me to make sure I'm okay after such an experience. But, intelligent as all my friends are, you each decide to wait to finish reading this entry, knowing I would never leave you hanging with something as important as this.

Here's the back story (you know I ALWAYS have a back story). I drive down a few weeks ago to Providence (and all of you who tell me to stay away from Providence, RELAX...I was going to pick a friend up from the airport). My friend and I went to eat at a really awesome restaurant right down the street from you-know-who's condo, called LF's. The food is good, but the atmosphere and ambiance is what makes this place. Everything is so intricate and delicate - it's great to just sit there and take it in. So, naturally, I thought it a great place to take my friend. Our waitress comes over, takes our drink order, and walks away. I turn to "C" (friend) and say: "Oh my God. I need to know where she gets her hair done. I have to ask her." Yolanda (of course I learned her name) says: "I'm so sorry, but I don't get it done here." Great, I think. Another person so obsessed with great hair care that they drive 600 miles just to get it done. What are the chances!?! She continues, "I get it done in Boston." Well, I just about jumped out of my chair. "I LIVE IN BOSTON!!!!" This is amazing. Tell me where. Tell me who. Tell me EVERYTHING. She just so happens (this is no joke) to have the woman's business card and gives it to me. I have hit the jackpot.

Fast forward a few weeks. I hold onto the card, still not sure how I feel about going to someone else. After all, I haven't had the best experiences in the past. However, even the best hair stylist can't keep a cut from growing. And mine did. Fast. I couldn't put it off any longer. I had to take the plunge. Believe me. This took me some time to come to grips with. I canceled the first appointment. I just wasn't ready. I mean, I'm starting over. I have a million opportunities ahead of me. I'm making new friends. Meeting new boys. (Well, that's been put on hold slightly. But that's another blog - or 10 - in itself!) I simply cannot risk a bad hair cut. But I was desperate. I spend the last few days convincing myself that it'll be okay. I will be fine. It's only hair. (Anyone who knows me knows that was only something I told myself to get through this first time. I don't really believe that.)

I left work later than I should have, and arrived late to my appointment. Probably my subconscious telling me something. But, I made it. I meet Kathleen, who shuffles me into a smock, and whisks me away (making sure to comment, of course, how we are now short on time). I get my hair washed by some poor girl who wants to be a hair stylist, I'm sure, but for now is stuck washing and massaging people's heads all day (which did not go unappreciated, by the way). Kathleen comes, basically tells me I need new "life" to my hair. I got somewhat defensive, sensing she was putting down Annie. And I don't let anyone talk that way about Annie! She starts chopping. Not the nicest or chattiest person in the world, but to be fair, my standards are set pretty high in this category. After a few snips on wet hair, many once it was dry, and $115 (the most expensive hair cut I've ever had, thank you), she's finished. I was covered in hair - inside of my shirt, my face (this includes eyes, nose, and mouth) - everywhere. But, my hair looked wonderful. I feel human again. Like I can walk down the street, and when people look at me (probably only because my outfit looks like something out of an 80s rock video or I have something in my teeth), I can once again sigh and say: "it's because of the hair."