never argue with a hairdresser

“eeeekkkkkkk……..!”

a shrill that obviously cannot come from a man but too exaggerated to be of a woman’s made me halt from making any step nearer to my apartment gate. i looked behind my shoulder.

egay, the hairdresser who has exclusive rights to my hair for six years now, looked at me in horror. “what the hell happened to the hair?”

the hair. not my hair. not any hair. but the hair. for him, it is a separate entity from the rest of my body. “err….”

“jesus, maggie, you need to set up an appointment with me soon. what on earth have you been doing?” he continued the shrill-like voice. he did a major makeover on my hair last november. honestly now, i cannot remember for what reason. there used to be a time in my life where a heartbreak can be temporarily mended by an expensive hair makeover.

sheepishly, i answered. “scuba diving.”

“ahhh, you must drop by my salon and let’s save that hair of yours.”

“but its still okay, really, egay. i just haven’t comb it since twelve hours ago.” i told him… errr… her. or him. whatever. “i swear it still looks really impressive if i just take time to comb it.”

“jesus.” he shook his head and firmly said, “i am expecting you in my salon in the next seven days.”

“i will try to find time.”

he eyed me, steadily. and then he shifted his stare to my hair. it was only for a couple of seconds that nobody said a word but i swear it felt like forever. for whatever it was worth, he was staring at my hair as though he was conversing with it through his mind. “take care of your hair, maggie.”

“i am. i am.”

“do not mock me. you haven’t comb it in twelve hours!”

oh jesus. it is not like my hair will fall out in oblivion for not receiving any attention from me for the last twelve hours. but this must be what one gets for having the same hairdresser for six continuous year. i nodded and told him i will remember what he said and will surely comb my hair the moment i arrived to my apartment.

honestly, i haven’t got round to that one yet. maybe after this post. what is the fuss, really?

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