Two years ago, I quit going to the hair salon around the corner, where I'd been going for a decade, and switched to a spendier salon where a couple friends had gotten terrific haircuts and color. I've been procrastinating on calling for an appointment for a solid month now (why? why do I do that?), but referred a friend there. She went yesterday (and looks fabulous)—but relayed the news that I'd better get in there quickly because Stephane is moving to Fort Lauderdale in February! Oh noes! So I called right away. I will have one last Stephane cut next week, and then I don't know what I'll do. You know how you often find a few stray hairs of uneven length that you need to snip the day after your haircut? I never had that with Stephane. Perfectly even ends every time. (Sigh.)
At least Frank, my colorist, isn't leaving.
But who will cut my hair? I can't go back to the old shop. I have higher standards now, and I want the perfectly even ends that Stephane's kooky technique (I have to stand up twice during his hair-cutting process) ensures.
(Could I sound any more spoiled?)