a non-hair cut

It's in the 90's, too hot for any outdoor activity.

I am staying out of stores.

Museums...sure, there are lots of good exhibits around, but don't feel like going.

I'm sick of looking at my computer.

I want to take a break from my book, The Fixer by Joseph Finder.  Readable, but not recommendable.

So I decide to get my hair cut at Super Cuts for $23. I feel adventurous.

My last hair cut was on April 20, almost four months ago.  But for at least six weeks after the cut I was miserable, hair-wise. The top layers were so short I looked like I was wearing a cap around my head.  It was really bad.  But on the plus side, it has grown out nicely.

My hair needs to be cut, and I don't want to spend $90. My request will be simple: About an inch off the bottom, and keep the layers long. Should be easy.

I get to Super Cuts early. There is only one cutter and she does not inspire confidence. She has platinum hair, a micro-mini atop chubby legs, and a big tat on her right upper arm. The one customer in her chair is a scruffy looking male; two similar looking guys are waiting. I watch her cut, and don't love what I see. And then I wonder if she'll be using the same scissors and combs on my hair. Then I think that another bad cut would make me miserable again. I don't need more stress in my life. I sit there with my Kindle looking at the cutter, looking at the clientele, looking at the just-used cutting tools, and I leave.

I get home just as Alexander is waking. I say, "What do you think of my hair; I just got it cut." It's stringy, unwashed, and hanging limply. "I like it; it looks good."  "Really?" I ask. "What's different about it?"  "It looks shorter." 

I make an appointment with my usual stylist, Mark. I'm a risk taker about some things; my hair is not one of them.