Strange

Liz's mane focus:

Those of you fortunate enough to have experienced the blog I once commissioned know that I have a drug-addicted, serial screwing, hepatitis-having, no longer licensed hair dresser. It seems like enough to make you go out and look for someone else to cut and color your hair, doesn't it? But, and women may understand this better than men, having someone that UNDERSTANDS your hair, communicates to it, has its best interest in her heart- that hairdresser is necessity. Like a musician cherishes his old beat up guitar, a woman with ample locks forms a bond with a good hair dresser that has a spiritual meaning. This relationship is the focus of this blog posting.

Since my hairdresser no longer has a place of employment, I had to go to a friend of her's home and have my hair done this week. Ummm... scary. I haven't been in a house like this since I was in college. Nothing matches, everything is a hand me down from a dead relative or the salvation army store. There are two cats living in the house and they don't look very healthy. Even though there were no drugs laying out on the table, I have a 6th sense for knowing where there is dope. Trust me on this: in this house there was stuff. I'm not able to sense exactly what drugs are stored in the wooden box on the coffee table, taped behind the toilet tank, laying in the sock drawer, or stored in a ziplock in the freezer, but I know that there are some highly potent and illegal substances in this house.

I'm also convinced that all of these substances had been consumed exactly 32 seconds prior to me walking in the door to get my hair done.

The "roommate" of my hairdresser is, by the hairdresser's standards, a loose woman with a revolving bedroom door. On this evening a trucker was at their house to get him some. He comes by whenever he's in town and hangs with the roommate until it's time to haul his load to the next town. There is tequila on the table when I walk in. By the time I leave, the bottle is empty.

Getting my hair done took almost 3 hours. Some of that time I was forced, against my will, to watch TV with my hairdresser. I was also informed of the relationship the roommate keeps with a local police officer. In exchange for keeping an eye on the house and not organizing a raid, he gets to come in periodically and watch the roommate while she... ummm... pretends he's not there and entertains herself. I kept watching my purse.

The roommate and trucker went out and got groceries for cooking dinner. While I sat at the kitchen table with foil all over my head, they drank and cooked and grinded on each other, locking lips and smacking ass while I tried to stare at the closed blinds that lead to the backyard. That lead to freedom. I was there to get my hair colored back to brown from the blonde that has creeped in after years of highlights and has turned almost platinum in places. I walked in as a blonde, left as a dark-haired brunette. The trucker said, "Your boyfriend is gonna want some tonight. He'll feel like he's getting some strange." It made me feel unclean.

When it was time to rinse, I stood bent over the kitchen sink. There was an unwashed bowl of chili next to me. It made me feel unclean too.

So what do I do? She's GREAT at doing hair. I'm entertained by her trashiness. But, I don't want to be there when they're busted, when another lover comes in with a gun, or when the GodSmack starts playing and the needles come out! Do I break the bond and find a lesser hairdresser- how important is comfort? What do I lose by staying inside the lines and not putting myself in mildly dangerous situations. MILDLY dangerous. They're not going to rape me or anything. They're just trashy and low class. Is that so bad, really?

I will say this. When I had to use the bathroom, I lined the seat with toilet paper before I sat down. I'm not sure if that will prevent the crabs or not, but it gave me some mental comfort none the less.