Saturday Mystery Guest Post #7

When I walk into a salon, I expect to hear mood kind of music like Enya and crap ...I can hear it now, the soothing sounds of - a police scanner... WTF? I present you with Mystery Guest Post #7- don't forget to comment and guess who on my blogroll wrote this...

This past week, I decided it was time to get my hair did. Now most of you, I’m sure, schedule your hair appointment weeks in advance at some swanky salon. Not me...Not anymore.

I used to go where the wine and Red Bull flowed freely. Where someone would come rub my feet, and the smell of hair coloring got me high enough to make the most outlandish requests for more free wine and Tootsie Pops. By the time I’d leave, I could hardly walk straight, much less care about how my hair looked.

This time, however, was very different. I walked up in the “new” place and found two young girls sitting; listening to a police scanner.

Me: Are you all busy. Do you have enough time to do my hair today?

Girl # 1: Yeah, I can do your hair.

Girl # 2: Oh god, Brandon’s unit is going to a rollover.

Girl # 1: Well, at least he’s not going to a fire, like last night.

Me (thinking): Uh Oh, do I really want this? Should I just wait? Oh F it. Where’s the wine? At least Red Bull?

None.

I sat in the chair. Christian beats rang from a distant radio. She put a leopard print hair barrier across me and got to work. I introduced myself, and sat patiently, listening to the police scanner, and them gawk about their boyfriends in the field.

Maybe I should become a cop, I thought. I’d issue all of my friend’s and family police scanners, and give them my unit info, that way I’d have someone following my actions and listening at all times.

What, I’m an exhibitionist, okay???

Or, maybe, I thought, I should become a hairdresser like them, so I could just sit and gawk about pointless things all day. Plus, I could talk shit about everyone who came in, and how bad his or her hair looked before I worked my magic.

Or, maybe I could just become a SAHM, and have babies following me around all day. Children watch your every move. Plus, I’d have an excuse to go to McDonald’s everyday, an excuse to drive a gas guzzler, and an excuse, that when asked later in life how or why I was an alcoholic, I could point at my kids and say…They did it.
Mystery Guest Post #7

(NOT)