A Love Letter

Some people write love notes to their significant others.
Some people write them to their children, or their friends (the author's friends, not the author's children's friends....that's just a little odd and creepy)
Heck, some people even write love notes to their pets.

I think my significant other is just peachy.
My friends and family are the best.
And my cat is the closest thing in my life to a child, and I love him with the unconditional love that I can only imagine comes as an accessory with actual offspring.

However

This is not a love letter to any of those people.
And yes, my cat does count as a person.

No.
This is a post about my complete and total adoration of my hairdresser.

Her name is Jenni.
And she's fabulous.
My friend Stacey, who also gets her hair cut by Jenni, once said that Jenni is "the only woman in the world who she would go gay for."
If this woman told me to shave my head because it would look good, I would do it.
The girl knows what she's talking about.

Jenni and I had our first appointment at a time in my life when I was recovering from some very traumatic hair experiences. One involved a haircut in England, which might not have been so bad if it had been in London or at Toni and Guy like I should've done, but in some salon in Hull where my hair was thinned within an inch of it's life. A very difficult feat, trust me. The woman responsible should've been given a Nobel Peace Prize for defying the laws of physics. The other involved my regular (albeit medicore) hairdresser coming down with the flu, and a replacement appointment with an elderly gentleman who had obvious cut hair during the first World War, and felt the need to cut my expertly crafted side-bangs straight across, thus resulting in a nightmare we now refer to as The Great Hair-tastrophe. To this day, my father refers to it as 'The Cleopatra Wig", which would have been really funny if it were actually a wig and not my real hair. And this was in America, people!

Naturally, being in the stylist'chair made me nervous at this point.
But by the time I was stateside again, I needed a bipartisan act of congress to make my hair presentable.
I'd just moved back to Springfield, permanently this time, and I wasn't really committed to the old adage that haircuts fall into the "you get what you pay for" category. Mostly because I'd patronized the most expensive and upscale salon in town, and wasn't all that impressed.
Taking a leap of faith, I decided to try a little salon down the block from where I was living at the time. From the outside, it looked like a suburban split-level. This normally would've been warning sign numero uno in my book, but I was Europe-ified and into trying new things and such. So I just kept telling myself, "it's only hair. It will grow back." While fending off a panic attack at the same time, of course.

Enter: Jenni.

Let's just say that I haven't been the same person since that day three years ago when this wonderful goddess of a hairdresser worked her magic on my head.
I didn't even bother looking back.
This woman performs miracles when there are seemingly no miracles to be had.

I have sent practically everyone I know to her.
And they've all had the same reaction.
"Oh.My.God. She is AWESOME."
Yeah, I know she is.
She even cut Janie's hair. If my little sister lets her touch her head, you know she's the real deal.

I constantly get complimented on my hair.
The cut, the color. Everything.
My response: "My hair girl is awesome. Here, let me give you her business card."
Even my mother's friends (who are in their 50's, by the way) think my hair is fabulous.
And it has nothing to do with it's fabulosity in it's own right, let me assure you.
In fact, i have been told multiple times (by men, of all species) that my hair is my *best* feature. I was hoping for sparkling personality and biting wit, but whatever. Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose.
When I sit down in the chair, I tell her to do whatever she thinks is best. Whatever she wants. Because I trust her judgement and her talent.
Do you know what? I don't think I've said that to anyone else. Ever.

She understands my protective nature of my side-bangs (which are a gift from the Heavens, am I right?).
She didn't think I was crazy when I casually mentioned the possibility of pink hair.
She pretends not to notice when I touch my dye-job up at home in between appointments because I'm too busy or lazy or poor to come in to the salon. Although it looks infinitely better when she does it, let me tell you.
She is genuinely interested in my life, and asks me questions and remembers things.
She cuts pictures out of magazines when she sees a hairstyle that she thinks will look good on me.
She doesn't care when I show up to our appointments in sweatpants and no make-up.
She comes in at 7 am for me, because sometimes that the only time I've got.
She is a wonderful person, and a great friend.
And, not most importantly but certainly helpful, her prices are so freaking reasonable that I was still able to afford her when I was working in retail. Part-time.

My luck hasn't been the best lately, what with all the explosions and speeding tickets and technological catastrophes that seem to follow me from day-to-day.
But on Tuesday, I had an appointment with Jenni.
I walked out of the salon feeling as though none of that bad stuff could weigh me down anymore, if only for a second.
I felt like a new person.

Also, Jenni who can dye someone's hair pink and a). not make fun of them for suggesting it and b). not make them look like a transvestite.

If that isn't miraculous...

Well, then I don't know what is.