Okay, I have found my salon. I went in today at 3PM to see Michael.
I got a chance to peruse the scenery, because I was a little early. I immediately felt right at home, and settled in with their ridiculously large stash of trashy gossip mags.
I just knew it was gonna go well.
They had leopard-print haircutting drapes. That was my first clue.
The second clue? Michael's button-down shirt was the same color as my hot-pink sweater.
Third clue: The guy names his brushes, and refers to them each individually as "she", like most guys refer to their cars. How can I resist?
So, my hair is shinier and silkier post-cut than it has been for a long, long time. I honestly feel a little creepy about it, like someone else's hair got stapled onto my undeserving head. I told Michael he was a magician, and he shot back, "No, I'm a BEAUTICIAN!!"
I loff heeem.
And it was reasonably priced, too. And no, I am not sharing any more info with you beeyotches, or you will try to steal Michael away from me.