Just a wee trim, please
Ladies out there, have you ever had an unfortunate experience with a hairstylist? Of course you have. Men, too, I imagine. My most unfortunate experience ever occurred the spring of my freshman year in college at a charity fundraiser cut-a-thon. I went to the booth of a pricey salon in town and said that I would love to have the bouncy, mushroom-y haircut I received at the fall cut-a-thon somehow recreated. Please. I LOVED that haircut. Well, that was the wrong request. Evidently the stylist from the fall cut-a-thon had quit, or was fired, or went swimming with the fishies in concrete shoes; his departure had left a cloud of green, jealous gas behind him, filling the lesser stylists in the shop with envy and hatred. One of these envious, hate-filled stylists got to cut my hair. I wound up looking like a blond-ish (well, dishwater blond-ish) Annie Lennox. I wept.
I chalked this horrid haircut up to stylist envy: my spring stylist found it IMPOSSIBLE to comprehend that I could be happy, nay, ecstatic with the haircut given to me by someone else!!!! He had to put his own special mark on my hair, imprinting me with his superior cutting and styling skillz, forever deleting my love for stylist number one. He failed.
Know what’s even crappier than hairstylist envy? Optometrist envy. No joke. The good doctor here in Manhattan (names changed or not provided to protect the targets) cannot fathom how I could be pleased, nay, thrilled beyond my ability to put into words with a type of disposable contact lens prescribed to me three or four years ago in New Haven. I have difficult peepers. They’re dry. They don’t see very well. They’re picky about the company they keep and they made me miserable for quite a while until this magnificent man in New Haven gave me the lenses of my dreams, my dreams I tell you. The good doctor here finds these dream lenses. . . wanting. They don’t correct my (ohsominimal) astigmatism; they are not made out of the newest and most super-duper materials; they may get discontinued before the end of the next Clinton administration; in short—they weren’t prescribed by him.
I will spare you the unedifying tale of my multiple trips to the good doctor with problems resulting from the NEW and IMPROVED lenses he prescribed (though twice it involved rushing off campus with swollen eyes and tears streaming down my cheeks–entertaining if you caught a glimpse, I’m sure) and leave you on a happy note: he’s checking to see whether my insurance will pay for lens implant surgery. That would make him happy, he’d get to fix my wagon, er, um, I mean my eyes for good!