Hair (but Not the Musical)

My Hairdresser Rhonda is a wonderful person. She is chatty, good with the scissors and knows all about people's lives. All in all I like visiting her, although I have to pay for it. The main thing is to look good, and like with all maintenance you have to start at the top and work your way down. So when I look in the mirror and start frightening myself thinking it's a hairy monkey staring back at me, I make an appointment with Rhonda.

This should be a joyful moment; after all I'm going to look a whole lot better, as long as I'm on time for my appointment. So why am I more terrified of the Hairdresser than the Dentist? Rhonda is surrounded by shampoos and hairspray, not drills and sharp objects which are forced into my mouth. She is also a lot cheaper than my Dentist, who starts charging the moment I poke my head around the door." Just looking at the goldfish in the waiting room" I always say to him, but even that appears on the large bill.

Rhonda is a lot more cheerful too; this in direct contrast with my Dentist, who has a somewhat depressed facial expression the moment I arrive. I can't understand that behavior at all, since I have sell half of my house to pay him every time he even glances my way. But even that doesn't scare me at all. So what is it?

The moment Rhonda puts the cape around my shoulders she starts chatting, all the while waving the scissors and snipping off my golden locks. I look at the floor and mourn the loss. In the meantime I have to keep up the conversation with Rhonda, look in the mirror and look at myself and her and freak myself out wondering what on earth I'm going to look like this time.

When she starts bringing out small knives, I panic. My hair is getting shorter and shorter while Rhonda discusses world politics with me. The more upsets there are in the world, the more she cuts off. The last time a war started I ended up looking like a punker. When there was a strike on I ended up without any hair at all. In cases of what Rhonda decides are major crimes, I get purple streaks. Around last X-Mas something was so upsetting her I looked like a giant strawberry.(although standing next to the X-Mas tree I didn't look too bad)

Of course young people think I'm the coolest person ever. I am daring and don't care what I look like. I am an artistic person and that is what artistic people look like.(or so they think). After all, Van Gogh cut his own ear off to look cool.

But the problem is, that I like to blend in with the rest of the population. Rhonda doesn't understand that at all. I better stay far away from tattoo parlors; who knows who works there.They could well be as nice as Rhonda.Hair will grow back, tattoos will stay forever. For now, I am wearing a wig over my green hair (due to St.Patrick's Day) and I started using stick-on tattoos. Yes, cool is my middle name, however undesired.