"Come back in six weeks to get trimmed up, want some product?" Not so much. Another six months, maybe. He probably cares more about my hair than I do, but that's how he gets paid.
But I come in and some people don't recognize me, someone mistakes me for someone else, I'm told it looks nice, and the big cheese says it looks "professional" which is perhaps a compliment but makes me feel like a stiff. I say the art nouveau has been rubbing off on me before realizing that most people don't know what I'm talking about, hence the recent love of floor-length skirts and dangly earrings and my inner goth kid trying to reconcile with the daily grind of adulthood.
Attempts at creative and academic writing diminished by a sore throat and a sore brain, assuaged by cups of tea and vending machine tylenol and strange and arty things on the Internet.
I want to go to the House on the Rock really bad.