Choosing my men.
It’s about a year since I had my last haircut. So imagine my disappointment when I went down to the salon today to discover that my regular stylist had left to seek greener pastures, or you know, classier heads to style. But since I was already at the salon, I just settled for whoever was free to cut my hair.
And horrors of horrors, it was a guy who came to me. I looked around the salon desperately to see if there were any female stylists around, but nope, it’s an all male day. And to make matters worse, he seems to be the only guy there who’s not gay. How can I describe how embarrassing this is to me? I mean, the only guy who should be running his hands through my hair must be in my bed, naked, and look either like Jay Chou, Takeshi Kaneshiro or Edison Chen (sorry J). Not some stranger with questionable sexual orientation and hands that reek of cigarette smoke.
However, one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, or a male stylist by his cigarette-toting hands. Perhaps because we were unfamiliar with each other, he was very conscientious and listened to my concerns. And the best thing is, I walked out of the salon liking the way I look. Even J nodded in approval. Usually after a haircut I’d just tie up my hair and pretend it never happened. So, the last verdict will come after I wash my hair. If it still looks as good as it did today, then I’ll be going back to him again.