A Tale Of Terror
I’ve written before (“Fraidy Cat”) about a few of my rational but mostly irrational fears. Icy Roads: Rational. Ventriloquists’ Dummies: Not so much.
But there are events in everyone’s life that are so terrifying it may take years before you can even talk about it.
It’s been four years now, and so I think I’m ready. If you are faint of heart, you are hereby forewarned. I hope you can sleep tonight.
Years ago, I would drive half-way across the state for a haircut. (Yeah, okay, it’s the state of Connecticut – but still). A good haircut was worth the time and gas. And since I often traveled to New York on business, I’d stay late for an appointment with a Madison Avenue stylist. Oh so worth the money.
But as I got older, I started to experiment with local hair. I wanted great hair, but I was sometimes ready to settle for pretty good hair right down the street. Of course, I considered it right down the street if the salon was in a radius of thirty miles.
And then, quite by accident, I found a pretty good stylist literally right down the street.
A five-minute commute, an accommodating schedule, and a decent enough haircut. I was in hair heaven.
I went to her for two years. Sometimes it wasn’t perfect. But you know, hair grows.
(I can’t believe I just wrote that.)
Then one day I’m sitting in her chair.
I ask her how she’s been.
She says, “I’ve had a bad month. I had a fight with my neighbor, and things got really ugly.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I say.
“It’s okay though,” she says. ”It’s actually helped me to face an issue I’ve had a hard time dealing with.”
“A happy ending, I guess,” I smile.
“Yeah,” she says, picking up the SCISSORS. ”Thanks to the judge’s orders, I’m going to ANGER MANAGEMENT classes. I start NEXT WEEK.”‘