On my day off, Tuesday, I got my hair done. It's such a fun treat I give myself every six months. (I wish I could go every six weeks like I'm suppose to with my roots, but it's just too darn expensive!) Any ways, I was finished with my color treatment and moved to cook under the heater for about 15 minutes. (Think Steel Magnolias.) The lady, picture a Shirley Maclaine type, who was right before me was still under the heater. Louise, our stylist, looked at her hair and told her the treatment wasn't dry yet, needed more time. Well, this didn't go over so well with "Shirley." She had already been sitting there for 20 minutes and loudly proclaimed, "Well, I don't want to be here until 6 tonight!"
Here we were: Shirley and Abby. Sitting side by side in the heaters. Awkwardly. After 15 minutes Louise comes back and says I'M done but Shirley's hair just wasn't taking. I coyly move over to the sinks as Louise 'calms the storm.' Louise tries to explain that she knows what she's doing and that everything will be fine. Louise says, "I promise I didn't do anything different this time. Look, you and her (aka Me) have the same treatment and she is done." To which Shirley states, "WELL, I'M NOT TWELVE!"
Ok, she hit a nerve. My huge pet-peeve in life is being called a child or teenage. I politely, yet forcefully, tell her, "Ironically, I have a shirt that says 'I'm Not Twelve.' I'm actually 27." Shirley was taken aback a bit. I think she felt a little guilty about her comment. (Which, fyi, she should have.) The only thing she said afterward was, "Oh, I don't have my glasses on."
Oh, Shirley, don't stress about your hair. It will be alright. There are worst things out there like, unemployment, homelessness and calling someone they're twelve.
His story begins with telling me Wednesday night, "There may be a right tennis shoe lonely on Fountain View."
As he walked out to his car in the morning, he was carrying causal clothes to change into for the Astros vs. Braves game that night. He opened his back seat, put his shoes on top of the car, placed the clothes in the backseat and shut the door. (You can totally see where this is going, right?)
Goes to work for 8 hours and then figures he has time to come home to change. Drives home and parks. Gets the clothes from the backseat and realizes....looks at the hood and there, sitting all by his lonesome, is Mr. Left Shoe. The SOLE survivor. HA! Get it?
Now we have to figure out what to do with just one shoe.