“Teach us delight in simple things.”

When Friday morning rolled around, I awoke to a gloriously bright and shiny day. It was bliss to have the day off – heaven to make coffee and drink it, eat a grapefruit and listen to the radio with Fauxhawk without rushing around like a maniac. The day stretched out luxuriously before me, full of delicious possibility. I had grand plans – lunch at the Morgan Library, a leisurely walk around MoMa, finding the ultimate work/play bag.

And then I remembered my hair appointment and my little Ashlee Simpson cheat sheet.

All of a sudden, DREAD. Doom.

As far as I’m concerned, haircuts are up there with wisdom tooth extraction in terms of anticipatory dread. I knew a girl who felt this way about therapy - so much so that she bought herself a bag after every session as a reward for surviving the torture. The memory of this very sensible (if expensive) tactic prompted me to pre-reward myself pre-haircut with a little treat (it doesn’t take much to encourage my etsy fixation). When I spotted this little baby, I knew she had to be mine. I knew she would give me strength – that she would buoy me through this difficult time.



Was this bag useful for work? No. Did I need this bag? Spiritually, yes. Did I buy this bag? Yes, I did. My baby’s coming all the way from Bristol and she's gonna be mine-all-mine.

At the salon, I hid behind a shelf of rhubarb hair glosser to avoid an awkward encounter with Chuck, the Butcher of Varick Street. As much as I hated the haircut he gave me, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by cheating on him with New Stylist Person. My intense interest in the range of rhubarb hair products was interrupted by a tattooed assistant, who led me to New Stylist Person’s station.

“So what are we doing?” NSP asked, running her hands through my hair.

“Making it better?” I said. In my nervousness, I had forgotten about my Feist – Stefy – Ashlee hair montage. I just wanted her to fix it – and fix it good.

“What is this?” she asked, picking up a chunk of limp hair from the back of my head.

Hair? Was that the right answer? I wasn’t sure.

“Who cuts your hair?” she asked insistently, wagging the limp hair. “Who did this?”

As a Certified Hair Professional, NSP was obviously outraged by the travesty that unfolded before her. She was determined to get to the bottom of things.

“I don’t know…” I muttered, stalling. I had the distinct feeling something bad was going to happen, but then out it came. “CHUCK!” I blurted.

With the lock still in hand, she called across the room. “What the FUCK, Chuck?” More hair wagging and clucking. I cowered in my seat with eyes lowered. The secret was out – I was cheating on Chuck with another woman, and now that woman was going to kick Chuck’s ass.

“He is sooooo checked out,” said NSP.

There was a lot of snipping. I don’t really recall what happened next as I was busy playing the embarrassing events of the previous few minutes over and over again in my head. All I remember is that NSP said she was from New Jersey, and that it instantly put me at ease. Instinctively, I feel that people from New Jersey care about hair more than other people. In contrast, people from Williamsburg, Brooklyn want to make you like a raving freak while they tell you about their upcoming DJ gig.

After the snipping came the blow-drying. This is typically when the horror unfolds – when you must sit quietly for fifteen minutes while a silent scream wells up inside you. I waited, gripping my chair.

When she was done, NSP twirled me around to get a full view of the coif. It was…a good…haircut. Just the way I like it - shaggy, long, and wavy, with not a hint of crazy.

I looked on in disbelief. “Thank you,” I whispered. I promised her my first unborn child; I offered her gold, frankincense and myrrh. And then I beat it out of there.

What followed was a Prell commercial: nauseating amounts of slow-motion skipping, bouncing, flipping, and tossing of shiny mane as I pranced through SoHo streets. It was a miracle that I was not gunned down for smugness.

My insufferable prancing led me to MarieBelle, the Mecca of chocolate. It was a sign from on high that I should post-reward myself for the haircut. Ignoring the fact that hours before I had already pre-rewarded myself, I wandered in and admired the stacks of gorgeous hot chocolate tins and the gleaming case of beautiful chocolates.



“We have a cacao bar in the back,” said the temptress. Cacoa bar? I’m there. Spicy Aztec Hot Chocolate? Yes, please. I sat in the glamorous cacao bar devouring hot chocolate as thick as pudding and reading my wonderful, fantabulous book. In other words, I was a person with good hair drinking hot chocolate and reading a book on a sunny Friday afternoon.

It was perfection.

And in case you are madly jealous of my new supertastic life, you should know that Verne the Cat has now taken to peeing in the shower and pooping in the kitchen. Apparently, Verne is afraid of the new $200 deluxe self-cleaning litter box Fauxhawk just bought.

In other words, I am person with good hair who scoops and rinses before showering.

Isn’t that fun?

Quote by Rudyard Kipling. Top pic by RedRubyRose. Chocolate porn by MarieBelle.