Frazzled

I love my hairdresser.

She is truly the most bestest hairdresser that ever a hairdresser was.

I first met her when I had to pick up some outrageous curls for my formal, and since that time we've gone through perms, foils, my wedding and everything. Even when the lad and I lived in Melbs for three years, I still got my hair done every time I returned to Brissy. Even now, I travel half way across town to see her.

Needless to say, the inspiration for this post is that I saw my hairdresser this very evening. Yay! As usual, we had our little banter about work, married life, and just how very slack I am at coming in every six weeks (though we both admired my efforts at only taking eight weeks this time 'round.)

And then she hit me with it. Yes, my most irreplaceable dresser of hairs told me that she was pregnant and due in three very short months - "one visit for you" as she so tactfully put it.

This news was harrowing. After all, she is my one and only hairdresser. I said all the right things, "Girl or boy?" (Girl.) "Name?" (Abby. But only if it's cute. Apparently you can't call an ugly baby Abby.)

Aaanyway, I eventually worked my way around to asking if she was going to take much time off for the wee bub. She just said that it would depend on how horrible it was...

A likely story. She's going to leave me. I know it. She's going to leave me and the evil evil regrowth I'll have by then!! I can't bear to think of it. I wonder perhaps if she'd keep working if I promised to come in every six weeks. Every six weeks I tell you! AND I'll buy professional styling products!!

Yep, that'll clinch it. Aaaahhh, yet another close shave avoided. Good work Al!