Betty Moses

Last week, I suffered through an experience that left me with burning red cheeks and a blood pressure that sent the numbers climbing.

First, as for the rosy red cheeks, around the office I’m famous for these cheeks that light up whenever we’re running past deadline in putting the newspaper to bed. The later we are, the brighter they get.

On this particular day, by the time I returned home from this experience, my face lit up like neon, but no deadline was involved. 

A trip to the beauty shop was responsible for my distress.

A couple of years ago, I wrote a column about the joy of coming home to a hairdresser that I knew and I had enjoyed her styling years ago.

That was not the case last week.

I chose to go to one of those shops who turn out haircuts like an assembly line. I’ve been there a few times before, and the directions for my preferred haircut are stored in their computer, leaving no room for error.

I felt the need for a little more pampering, so I requested the whole nine yards — a haircut, shampoo and styling.

Just so you know, being 84 years old and having a head of silver hair, I prefer the typical hair style little old ladies like to sport — cut out around the years, clipped in the back and standing perky and a little spikey on top. It’s guaranteed to take years off our age.

Well, the hairdresser that was lucky enough to draw my number was evidently clueless as to what was needed to achieve the look I desired. The haircut was OK, but what was needed to style my hair was products. I mean lots of products — root booster, mousse, styling spray and the final layer of hairspray guaranteed to coat the hair with a layer that could put a bruising on any hand that might attempt to run fingers through said hair.

I told her all of this.

Her definition of products was a little squeeze of root booster, and after I politely made a few suggestions, she sprayed a little hairspray and combed my hair almost flat.

Yes, I said “flat.”

I could see in the mirror that under my lifeless hair my cheeks were taking on that rosy glow, and I was taking deeps breaths to try to keep my blood pressure from topping out.

Suddenly, I could contain myself no longer. I actually grabbed the comb from her hand and stated, “Let me show you how it’s done.”

She looked at me in surprise, and I did show her how it’s done. Then I told her to spray — lots of spray.

I was surprised at myself and realized that I just had a hissy fit with the poor girl.

New Oxford American Dictionary defines “hissy fit” as “an angry outburst or tantrum.” 

Southern women are experts at creating hissy fits that are awesome to view. I considered mine as a minor event as most of it was in my head.

I actually tipped the lady well because I didn’t want her to call me bad names after I left the shop.

After all, my haircut style is in their computer.

A little tampering with the numbers could create havoc.

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