Hairy Situation

On Friday I received some of the worst news I could ever have imagined. My devastation was so profound that I couldn’t even process my emotions properly.

It began like this.

Me: Hi, I’d like to make an appointment with Megan on Sunday, if she has anything available.

Guy (sympathetically): Oh, Megan doesn’t work here anymore. She left, hmmm, about a month and a half ago. No, actually it was more like two months ago. Wow, has it been that long already? I guess it has.

Me: She’s…gone?

Guy: Yeah.

Me: Oh. Okay. Thanks. Bye.

Megan is gone? Megan doesn’t work there anymore?

*deep breaths*

*lip quiver*

*raucous scream of agony*

OHMYSPAGHETTIMONSTER! WHO is going to cut my hair now?!

I’ll have to go back to the overpriced salon in town, where everyone there is old enough to be my mom, and they can only cut hair to mirror their own. They actually fill requests for mullets and kinky perms, and use words like “feathered” frequently. A request to redye my hair blue would leave them laughing and then horrorstruck as they realized I wasn’t kidding. None of them would have a clue how to do it. They have teenage girls around just to wash hair and sweep, because these hair stylists don’t shampoo or use brooms. C’mon! Think of their backs! You have never seen so many pairs of Crocs outside of a shoe store. And the leggings! Don’t even get me started on the leggings. These are ladies who shut down the salon once a year so they can all go see Celine in concert! DO NOT! MAKE ME! GO BACK THERE!

So now what do I do? I need to find Megan!

She’d given me her cell number and her MySpaceOut page, but where did I put that?

Eventually, I found her MySpaceOut page, so I had to make a new one for myself and send her a message, with hopes that she’d check it sometime soon.

Sweet Pastafarians, she did!

So, tonight I went to see her at her new salon. On the bitter-fucking-coldest night in a long, long time, with wipers that wouldn’t clean my windshield because they were so ravaged by ice and vigorous chiseling. But I had to go! I even made her a pair of earrings for Christmas, mostly because I can’t afford to give her any kind of holiday bonus, but I couldn’t exactly go empty-handed to see the woman who changed my head. Forget that I always over-tip her. Forget that I’m broke. Forget that I hardly know the girl. She changed my head!

I went. Once again, she has gifted me with yet another haircut that I am unworthy of, and told me hilarious stories of single life when you’re a smart, funny, 26-year-old robo-babe, straddling two states and leaving many broken-hearted men in her wake. It’s always a trip to hear about her life, particularly when mine pales in comparison.

One problem for me in this encounter was that I had a severe case of foot-in-mouth syndrome.

Megan got a new bunny, and she chose the one at the store that had bald spots and was least likely to be adopted by anyone else. The store clerk even commented that no one else was going to take the bald bunny home.

It would’ve been fine to just keep my mouth shut and chuckle along with the story, but I had to say something really stupid because I couldn’t stop myself.

“Well, the bald bunny is in good hands since you’re a hair stylist. Or is that a H-A-R-E stylist?”

Aw jeeze, did I really say that? WHAT is WRONG with me?!

As I was leaving, I must have just been overcome with emotion. Seriously, the thought of losing her as a hair stylist was so traumatic to me, knowing she was still around made me want to chain her down and claim her as my own. As we hugged and said our goodbyes, she said she was so happy to have received my message because she had no way of getting in touch with me.

I said, “Yes, I’m so happy I found you!”

I realized quickly how eyebrow-raisingly creepy that sounded, so I tried to correct myself.

“I mean! I’m just really happy we found each other again!”

She looked at me in that quizzical way. That way that says she’s reevaluating her assessment of me. That way that says she is either going to back away slowly and change her cell number tonight, or that she totally thinks I’m a lesbo with a crush, and now she has to make sure she doesn’t touch any part of me ever again, lest I get the wrong idea.

What a moron! Did I just make her think I am in love with her?

Shit! What the hell is wrong with me?! Aside from my doctors, she’s the most important person I pay to see. I don’t pay to see many people! She has to know I’m straight. I’ve mentioned Boyfriend Extraordinaire before, haven’t I? I mean, how could I not? Maybe she thinks I’m bi. Oh man! Oh man, oh man, oh man! And I’m not saying that being a lesbian would be a bad thing, even though I’m not, but I do NOT want her creeped out. I NEED HER SKILLS TO BE USED ON MY HEAD! If she’s creeped out, she could easily give me my old hair back. I can think of no worse fate!

UGH! I do this all the time! It is so much better for all involved if Happy Villain just does not talk. Ever.

If I screwed this up, I’m going to be angry with myself forever.

Will someone please tell Megan I’m straight?! And I don’t have a crush on her?! And I was just having a stupid night?!

GAH!