shave and a haircut

Just so you know, I'm not going to do this on a daily basis. But I am going to practice a little for the day I might have a REAL BLOG that will be viewed by REAL PEOPLE instead of random peeping toms who happen to come across me and wonder if I have something to say. I have a lot to say, but I'm not yet in the habit of saying it in a blog. I explain it to my children, I tell it to my friends, I yell it at my husband (sorry, Butch), but I don't usually lay it out for all of the world to see unless I'm getting paid. My friend Tom gave me this mantra a few years ago: "You don't get out of bed for less than $300." He thought my publication standards were a little low, I think. What will he think now?

As long as I'm doing this, I might as well dive in with some personal mundanities, namely: I got my hair cut today. We're not just talking any haircut. We're talking the best haircut ever. The cutter (I have some sort of aversion to the word "beautician") was a big Greek woman named Farey who was in cohoots with my mother, who has hated my hairstyles (or lack thereof) for as long as I can remember. I sat down and asked for a trim, a blunt cut, straight across.
"No," she said.
"Are you sure?" I asked her. "I was thinking just a little off the bottom."
"No," she said. "You need body. Layers. You need layers."
I haven't had layers since the Dorothy Hammill cut I had in elementary school, but I wasn't sure Farey would know who Dorothy was so I didn't say anything.
"I will cut," she said, "here. Yes?"
We had our dining room painted in June and Oscar, the guy who painted it, treated me the same way.
"I want gray and white," I said.
"I have a nice yellow."
"But I want gray and white," I said.
"Blue is nice."
I'm not much of a decorator, and I know it. So did Oscar, who seemed so pained by tmy choice of gray that I let him pick the colors: blue and yellow, with white trim. Very French. Or very Hanukkah. I'm not sure which, but the room looks amazing.
I told Fayer she could do what she wanted with my hair. She cut long layers that sound dumb but actually constitute my first grownup haircut in years. (I just hit 40 so this is quite a milestone).
"Do you blow it dry?" she asked.
"I don't," I said. "But if you must."
"I must," she said. And she did.
If anyone lives in Arlington: Salon Image, next to the Lost Dog Cafe. I know when I'm licked and I'm not going anywhere else. I'm sure my mother will be writing Farey a thank-you note some day very soon.

Addendum: April 9
Cruel Temptress. Farey, it seems, has given me one of those cuts that only SHE can manage. She has given me something that requires PRODUCT. And a BLOWDRYER. Still, I cannot help it. She has me hooked.