I can pretty much guarantee you, the moment I let someone know I am a hairdresser, that I will inevitably hear a hair story. But the one I heard the other day, came unsolicited. I was at the hospital with my sister waiting long hours while she healed at an imperceptiblespeed. During the day, I had made runs out to the nurses station for various requests, i.e., water, cotton swabs for the mouth, robe change, etc. The last run out to the nurses station was complicated for me. I was looking for a sign that it was okay to leave, and that my sister would be in good hands if I left. The nurse Becky, upon seeing my awkward attempt at having her absolve my guilt, said, "No problem! We will take care of her. In fact, we will check on her more since you are leaving." I said, "Oh good. I have got a 5 year old I need to take care of at home."
"Oh, no. She doesn't need you." You know, when I was five, I cut my hair and stuffed it in my father's shoe, thinking he would never find it there."
"Really?" I asked. "Did you know I was a hairdresser?"
She went on to tell me her father found the hair, and they did cut the rest of her hair off. (I would have liked to have seen how that story played out)
It seems to be a theme. Because when I returned home, I slept most of the night, and although it was hard to get up in the morning, I was excited to spend the day with my family. We get to the park where a July 4th party is in full swing, put on by the city of El Cerrito, and I run into a friend, who's daughter I get to finally meet. The girl is beautiful, and her hair is cut as short as mine is now. My friend says, "She took the scissors to it yesterday," as she motioned at the front of her daughter's hair. "We cut the rest of it to match." Her daughter covered her head in embarassment.
I guess I better keep scissors out of hand's reach of my five year old.