Oh, damn, he’s cutting it too short.
Snip, snip, snip.
I watch my strands fall off to the floor with horror.
He catches my expression, shakes his head and holds up his brush, with my hair rolled tightly on it, “How many times a week do you wash your hair?”
“Yes, I can tell. Your hair is so thin and so fragile! Ya 7ayateh you should only wash it three times a week.”
“I can’t. I hate the feel of it.”
“But you will get used to it 7ayateh! Three times a week.”
He gets out his blow dryer. I hate this part- not only does he burn my scalp, he also manages to pull my hair out of its roots, and to make matters worse, this terrible proccess is always followed with dollops and dollops of wax- “For volume 7ayateh.” Ok. Volume. Volume is good, right?
I leave looking like a poodle. A GODDAMN POODLE.
In the car, I call a friend of mine, “I look like a poodle.”
“Good,” he told me cheerfully. “I like poodles.”