See, the Plastic People don't have to worry

I've noticed in the past couple of months that all of a sudden I feel Very Strongly about certain things that I never before really considered or addressed. Is this me becoming old, or is it another hormone surge, or am I just finally making up my mind and declaring myself? Here is something I decided over the weekend--

I hate getting my haircut. I really, really do. It's not because I dread getting a bad haircut, though I've had many of those. I've been smart enough in the past few years to pay a little extra for hair stylists that are familiar with terms such as "texturizing," know that "layering" does not equal "mullet," and are adept at cutting straight lines. (Straight lines are extremely important, a fact you don't realize until you come home without them.) I'm also wise enough not to ever go into a place again that has example hair styles on the walls from the 1980s. (Fantastic Sam's in Cary, NC, I'm talking about you. It was a really long year, growing out that disaster.)

The reason I hate haircuts, besides the price, which inevitably jacks up with the hair products they sucker you into, and besides the whole waiting room thing, is that I feel very sorry for the person cutting my hair. I'm not what you would call a "talker." I'm a hard-core introvert who after a few years of living in the South, is fully capable of small talk, but despises it on principle. I'm also really bad at asking people questions about themselves--which is really quite key, a lot of times, because many people really like to talk about themselves, and this can fill up a lot of dead air. I'm not saying it's a bad thing--clearly, I too can ramble on, if only if writing, at great length about my own self. It's just they way we are. But when I'm in the chair getting my hair cut, or shampooed, or styled--I just can't push myself to ask those questions or spout off random facts about myself or TV or the weather to a perfect stranger who cuts so many heads in a week or a day or a month that I doubt they give a crap. But they probably do care about the fact that this chick whose hair they're cutting is virtually a mute, and specializes in one-sentence answers, and rarely, if ever, initiates any sort of conversation. The whole experience is almost unbearable. I'm like a walking Paxil ad. No wonder I wait 6 months between cuts.

So to Rusty, very friendly hair stylist at Hair Plus who did a really great job on Sunday--my profound apologies. And Merry Christmas.