The hair on my head was so out of control, it was beginning to consume my face, so I decided it was time to do something about it. Since I was a child, with few exceptions, my mom has always cut my hair. Even when I went to school in Iowa, I would wait until I came home on breaks to have her chop it. I didn’t, and still don’t, really have a “hairstyle” so I wasn’t about to spend what few dollars I had on a salon haircut. I was going to spend it on beer.*

For some reason, now that I live only 90 minutes from Mom, I find it difficult to make a hair appointment with her. There’s just never time when I visit anymore. As a result, my hair had grown out of control. It was many inches too long, many inches too poofy, and recently began growing furry paws and a tail.

So I gave in and called the JCPenney salon. Hey, when you haven’t gotten a ‘real’ haircut in 15 years, you don’t really know where to go, so you end up at a department store salon because hell, at least you’ve heard of it. After I had texted my dearest pal Robin about proper stylist tipping etiquette, I was on my way to losing 10 pounds via haircut.

Fortunately, nothing really bad or embarrassing happened on my first trip back to the salon. The hair came off and now my head feels like it might float away. I even wore my hair down today for the first time in months. Of course, I can’t stand the way it feels around my neck right now, so it’s going right back up as soon as I pry my fingers from the keyboard. But I’m just so glad I finally went in and…

Wait, I had a point I was trying to make somewhere. Since my flow of consciousness isn’t getting me anywhere near it, I’ll insert it awkwardly here. If you’ve lost interest by now, here’s where we get back on track.

The point: Nikki, my stylist**, kept giving me wonderful compliments during the cut. First, she said my hair was beautiful (obviously she was looking beyond the dried out wavey mess that sat before her) and she could tell I had never colored it. To which I broke down and shamefully admitted to that one time in high school when a home dye kit turned me into an Oompa Loompa.

She choked a little at the words home, dye and kit, but continued to tell me how healthy my hair was. Ladies, that’s what happens when you put approximately zero energy into your hair. No blow dryers or curling irons or straigteners or dye. It doesn’t look like much, but your stylist will compliment how healthy it is!

The point continued: The other great compliment came when I somehow mentioned that my boyfriend was 26. Surely I was much younger than him, Nikki my stylist proclaimed, as I could only be 21. Maybe a young-looking 22 at most. Now perhaps she was just digging for a good tip, but since I had spent nearly the entire haircut scrutinizing my giant pores and droopy eye bags and harsh complexion in the hyper-lit vanity mirror, I was more than happy to gush a radiant thank you and admit that actually, I was sooo much older than I looked. A whole four, three at most, years!

*That is such a lie. I totally didn’t drink until I was almost 21.

**That’s what I keep calling her because for some reason she came up in conversation like 9 times last night.