dumb story boonseng

Boonseng Terry.
That is her name. I know. Because I sat staring at a stack of her business cards. Fuming inside.

I went to get my hair "trimmed" this week. I absolutely LOVED the lady who cut my hair for my big cut back in June. But, sadly, she works at a nice salon that costs way too much $$$ dinero $$$ for the likes of me to have my hair cut there every 2 months.
So, I opted for some middle ground (between the high class salon and jonny's clippers in my own kitchen) and went to some place in the mall.
I was in a hurry (as always). Only had 2 hours before work. They took walk-ins. She would be ready for me in 5 minutes. "Perfect!", thought the naiive, new to short-hair haircuts me. Not so fast. 'Perfection' slipped farther from my thoughts the longer I sat in Boonseng's chair.
Long story short- She snipped away with the speed of a person trained to get in several hundred thousand hair cuts per day (so I exaggerate, so what?). And I had to pause her a couple of times to tell her what to do/how to cut it. She stared at my hair quizzically, fumbled around on her table for a different comb (as if that will make a difference!- when one side is 2 inches longer than the other), and chats in an accent about blah blah blah. She shaves the back of my neck.
I leave with a short short haircut that is supposedly an "inverted bob" and it looks more like an outverted blob.
I call jonny and tell him I hate it. Its way too short. I freak out. I curse Boonseng for her lack of skill. I curse myself for being an overzealous tightwad. I curse the cooks who make fun of me at work. I think, 'if only this, if only that', I figure if I straighten something and poof something else then maaayybe...I talk myself into thinking 'its not that bad'...


Then I breathe.

Its really not that bad. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

It will grow. Right?

Right?


Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm over it. Take that, Boonseng.