Memory Monday

Here’s a story about my Mom and I doing a little christmas shopping for ourselves.

Yer Hair Yer Way-

My mother and I finally made the trek all the way to Sauk City to the large textiles shop there. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with skeins of colorful, quality yarn. I had never seen so much yarn in one place. It was magnificent. I spent my first thirty minutes in the shop just circling. I wanted to view each and every strand, and then categorize it in my brain from yarn-of-my-fantasies to I-guess-it’s-possible-that-someone-on-this-Earth-would-want-to-knit-with-that. I wanted to bask in their fuzzy glory. Then I spent another half an hour just to narrow down my top twenty five list down to just the two I would take home with me. My carefully debated picks were two tricolor, hand painted, alpaca skeins. My mother dwaddled a little longer to swap patterns with the shop owner, and then of course we needed to have our skeins wound. However, I always lose track of time when surrounded by wool, and each time I underestimate the time it takes to wind a yarn ball properly. Therefore, by the time we brought our precious new yarn to the car, I was running very late to my haircut appointment. While my mom was speeding down the highway back to Baraboo, I thought I would call the hairdresser and explain that we were on our way. Yet, when I called, she quite snippily said that I did not have an appointment with her today. Odd. So I voyaged back into my call history to see who I had called to make an appointment with. As It turned out, I had accidentally scheduled an appointment with Yer Hair Yer Way. Yep, you read that correctly. Not “Your Hair Your Way,” but instead, Yer Hair Yer Way. Reluctantly, we drove out into the country to the hick boutique. As soon as I walked in, my heart started racing and my palms started sweating. There was no ceiling. Just a roof. Nothing else. Just some walls that went up but never connected with anything. And the walls! Oh, the walls! The “crown molding,” if you can call it that, were plastic train tracks. There were mirrored butterflies littering the walls. There was a fish tank with no water or fish. And by the register there were two posters announcing local sex offenders. Also, do you know that old rule where you should always look at your stylist’s hair to see how they may cut yours? Well this woman had the worst hair I have ever seen. It looked like a bad wig straight out of 1980’s New Jersey. It was dyed it three distinct layers. She had black on the bottom, ruddy brown in the middle, and the cherry on top was the bleach blond pony tail. On top of this terrifying dye job, she had teased her hair in the back into a knotted rat’s nest. And I swear to god, some of her hair was melted together back there. When she calls my name to approach the chair, I feel all the dread that one must feel when called from death row. For the love of god, this woman was going to murder my hair. I sat down in the chair, and in my peripheral vision, I saw that this woman’s fake nails were just as gross and dirty as her hair. I closed my eyes and read my hair its last rites under my breath. At the end of my haircut, I was holding my breath as I went to look, and I kid you not, I burst into laughter. I was incredulous. She had just given me the best haircut of my life. And all for just twelve dollars! Shows you never to underestimate a small town woman, even if she has bad hair.

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