Last weekend I took my manfriend to the Paul Mitchell school to get our hairs trimmed. Now, I LOVE the Paul Mitchell school. Someday when humans are allowed to marry corporations, the Paul Mitchell school will be welcome to join my fabulous poly commune of raspberry leaf tea, mashed potatoes, five-grain wheat bread, watermelon, various books, and Michael Fassbender (you can see where my priorities are). It's very inexpensive, the students do a good job, and best of all, since they're students, they take twice as long as a regular hairdresser because they're being careful and want to do well. This is AWESOME! Typically my visits to the Paul Mitchell school go something like this:
1. Arrive and check in
2. Meet my student hairdresser and tell him or her what I would like done (shorter! Shorter, student! Don't be afraid!)
3. Get the awesome five-minute scalp massage and shampoo. Here begins a state of near-comatosity.
4. Remain in a virtual coma for as long as the student takes to cut my hair (usually about an hour and a half).
Well, this past haircutting experience was a leetle different. It was due to my student hairstylist --a flighty lady and apparently consumptive, based on her pallor and coughing. Put frankly, it was like getting my hair cut by John Keats. She would snip a few strands, then waft off to find her supervisor to make sure she was doing it right. Her hands weren't on my scalp long enough for comatosity to set in. I was a sad Diana. That is, until her supervisor took over at the end to shape things up and mix in some of that awesome Super-Skinny Serum.
And I swear to you, I almost fell asleep in the chair. The only thing keeping me awake was the knowledge that if I nodded off, my head would jerk forward and I would probably lose an ear to the supervisor's scissors.
Uncanny, I tell you. The bliss of getting your hair cut.