My hair is healthy thanks to a skillfully executed trim. It’s soft and shiny thanks to the super duper conditioning treatment I splurged on. It’s resplendent with natural-looking highlights that tell the world I’ve been lounging on a Maltese beach rather than slaving in a British Columbia rain forest.
The stylist responsible for my new do is a genius, an artist, a miracle-worker!
In addition to being all of the above, she’s also nice. She brewed a pot of soothing herb tea specially for me, brought me a stack of magazines and didn’t seem offended when I flicked through them instead of making small talk.
She massaged my hands, my scalp and my ego when she mentioned how silky my hair felt.
In short, she’s the pinnacle of salon perfection, but I won’t be able to see her for much longer.
She’s not my real stylist. She’s just the one I switched to while mine is on maternity leave.
I have moments of bliss because I’ve finally found a stylist who “gets” my hair, but then I realize how awkward it will be if I don’t go back to my regular one when she returns and I remember how much I hate any kind of confrontation.
I better take a few more pictures of my hair because it’s never going to look this good again.