The person who cuts my hair on those occasions when I have looked into the mirror and been moved to do something about the condition of me is a young woman named Desirée (I am guessing on the spelling and accent).

I am, if I say so myself, the perfect customer because my basic approach is “I kinda want this but just do what you want and I will live with it.” It does cross my mind each time that taking the same approach with some other women in my past might have changed the course of history, but, you know, it’s all worked out okay. For me and for them.

I was a particular horror show this time around, have moved well past my expiration date for a trim and possible hosing down while attending to Buddy the Wonder Dog (he gets the staples in his stomach and that annoying cone thing removed tomorrow morning). To take her mind off the awful task of making me, if not presentable, at least bearable, she told me an amusing anecdote which I pass on to you because. Just because.

Desirée has a very small head and face. So when she was told in her senior year of high school that she needed glasses, she had to shop for a frame in the children’s section, where she choose a Spongebob Bob product. It wasn’t marked as such, she said, so she figured nobody would know. Came the day her glassed were ready, she and her mom picked them up on the way to school. That afternoon, a teacher opted to show the class a video and lowered the lights.

The frames glowed in the dark.

Now there’s the sort of experience that could scar a gal.

Maybe I shouldn’t let her so close to me with sharp instruments.

Which, it also crosses my mind, equally applies to those other women in my past.

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