Breaking up is hard to do…

… especially when it concerns the person who cuts your hair.

Take my guy, for instance.  I had been going to him for about 10 years at a location that was 10 minutes from home. Oh sure, he double- and triple-booked, working a couple of chairs at once, resulting in marathon visits (especially when going for color).  And, he was expensive. But, I always left looking fabulous, and feeling good, too, so I kept going. Of all the stylists I’ve ever had, he’s the one I’ve gone to the longest.

Then, he moved his salon an extra 10 minutes away, to a higher-rent district (read: higher rates), situated at a very congested intersection in a location I don’t usually frequent.   His relocation was drama-filled, took much longer than it should have, and he was heavily invested, then seriously overextended. I had followed him through the drama and was concerned that his move coincided with when the economy really started to tank. When I last went in October, it was clear the salon was floundering:  On a Saturday morning, chairs were empty; shampoo girls sat around text-messaging; his “partner” had defected to one of the chain salons in a nearby mall.

He had also admitted that his “scissors” hand (no, his name isn’t Edward) was hurting – he was still recovering from having injured it in a charity basketball game for his kid’s school. Worst of all, I left feeling like he didn’t listen to what I wanted and I just wasn’t happy with the cut.

So, I cheated. I went to a salon much closer to home. Took my chances and walked in. I got a lady who knew the exact cut I wanted. She was fast, nice, and she did a really lovely job on my hair.  Not only that, but she waxed my eyebrows, too. I was in and out in less than an hour for everything, and got it all for less than my other guy charged.

Last week, it was getting to be time for another cut. I was debating whether to go back to my other guy and let him know I was defecting to this other lady, or just go to the other lady and not say anything. Or, maybe I should write him a letter? Email him?  Honestly, how do you tell your hair stylist that you’re just not… coming back?

Well, I didn’t have to tell him. He hunted me down last week. Called me on my cell phone.

He said, “Where’ve you been? I was going through my address list and realized I haven’t seen you in a while. What are you doing with your hair??”  I answered with a vague, oh, around, been busy, you know… “Well, come on in – things are picking up, we have a bunch of new stylists!”

Um, how about Saturday morning? Your first available?

“Done. See you then!”

So, I went. And you know what? He did a great job, as usual. I confessed about going to the other stylist because I needed a cut fast and didn’t plan ahead.  He understood about going someplace closer to home. He said over half of his old clients have moved with him from the old location. But really, he said, it isn’t that much further away.

He did note that, as evidence of the faltering economy, he’s booking fewer color jobs these days. I’m one of those; I finally started doing mine myself. I can buy a lot of Miss Clairol at CVS for the amount I was paying for foil highlights and lowlights. He understands; he’s tightening his own belt in an effort to make his new salon succeed.

I didn’t break up with him, and I’m glad I didn’t. In fact, I feel a little dirty for having “cheated.” That’s a long relationship to just chuck based on a few extra minutes.  I just need to plan ahead, is all.  Not wait till the last minute, when it becomes an EMERGENCY. And save a few extra pennies to cover the difference in cost. Shouldn’t be that hard, right?

Now – tell me your best breaking-up-with-your-stylist story. Go ahead, I’m listening…

Your Very Own McDreamy Finger McPuppet!

 

(WARNING: GRATUITOUS POST ALERT.)

So, you’re probably saying to yourself, Why, Soup – why a Patrick Dempsey finger puppet?

(You mean, other than because he is such eye candy?)

Well, funny story, that – ha HA!

So, Sunday morning, we’re all getting ready to go to church. Not the earlier, 9:15 service that we usually attend, where there is Sunday School, but the later, 11:00 service, because, well, we were TIRED and we slept late. The boys grumble less about going to the later service, too, so frankly, it’s the path of least resistance. (I know. Shut up.)

I’m flying around in the kitchen trying to get myself ready, because I have to be there 30 minutes before the service so I can rehearse with my choir. (I sing in the choir. I am an alto. It’s true.)  The Peezer had come out of his room after sleeping later than we had every reason to expect (or hope), and was sitting at the table, eyeing up his new art set that Santa brought him at Christmas.

“I want to make something,” he told me.

“OK, Peeze – what?”

“A puppet, Mommy.”

Riiiight. A puppet. In an uncharacteristic flash of brilliance, I thought, finger puppet! And glanced at the giant stacks of clutter on every available surface adjacent table, where I spied the most recent Esquire magazine.  (Do you read Esquire? If not, you really should. There’s some damn fine writing in that magazine.) I flipped through, looking for a face, any face (preferably one that didn’t have writing on the other side, as I haven’t read this issue yet), and what I found was  Patrick Dempsey in Versace.  (Praise Jesus!)

I instructed the child to cut out the handsome guy’s head, and then cut a strip of plain paper. I taped the two together, secured it around the kid’s finger, and thus, the McDreamy Finger Puppet was born.  The Peezer was pleased, and I was patting myself on the back for my creativity.

Then, I left for church and promptly forgot all about it.  Curt and the boys followed later, almost on time for the service. (We joke that we have yet to learn what the beginning of the church service is actually like because we are always just a wee bit late. Always.)

Fast-forward to halfway through the service. I’m sitting in the choir loft, facing the congregation. Curt’s in a pew near the front, by himself (the boys are off at what they call “Junior Church” and what we call “thank GAH we can stop shushing the kids for the next 50 minutes”). I glanced over to catch Curt’s eye, and when I did, what did I spy but Patrick Dempsey‘s head bobbing around on the pew in front of Curt. It seems the Peezer had brought McDreamy to church, then left him in the pew when he exited, but Curt apparently was still, um, playing with the finger puppet.

It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. And you know how inappropriate that is during church. Especially for a good Methodist like me! We don’t even CLAP in church, let alone giggle!

Anyway, it was a hoot, and I thought that my readers - all seven of you – might want to share in the fun. Thus, at the top of this page, you can click on McDreamy’s handsome-as-all-get-out face and make your very own finger puppet. Grab your scissors and your tape, carefully cut along the dotted lines, tape the band to your finger, and have yourself some good, old-fashioned fun!

(Don’t say I never gave you anything.)

Meg’s 25 Things

This meme is going around Facebook and I have been thrice tagged. I spent a considerable amount of time thinking about which 25 things to include, and as any blogger would do, decided it would be a waste of perfectly good words to leave it on Facebook alone. Hence, what follows is probably more than you ever wanted to know about me. Feel free to respond and/or parse.

25 THINGS ABOUT MEG

1. I’ve been married to the same wonderful man for 15 years, but I’m shooting for something more like 50 – no, wait – 60 years.

2.  have three sons, ages 12, 10 and 4. No, we weren’t trying for a girl with that third one. Yes, he was planned.

3. My maiden name is Beaver, and I didn’t know it was funny until I left home to go to college, because there were many of us in my town, and had been for generations.

4. It isn’t funny, though, smartass, because I am a distant relation to James A. Beaver, a General in the Union Army during the Civil War, Governor of Pennsylvania from 1887-1891,and 24-year president of the trustees of Penn State (he has a football stadium and an avenue named after him). He was also a finalist to be James Garfield’s vice president, but he declined, and Garfield was assassinated, so Beaver would have been president of the United States, too. Except that he wasn’t. (I bet if I were descended from a U.S. President, I could’ve scored some sweet tickets to the inauguaral festivities last week!)

5. I grew up on a farm in south-central Pennsylvania. No, I don’t know how to milk a cow, so don’t even ask. (I’ve never been cow-tipping, either.)

6. If I had college to do over again, I would have taken more music classes and might even have majored in it.

7. I played the oboe through college, the piano through high school, and have dabbled in playing the tenor and alto sax. But my favorite thing in marching band? Twirling a silk flag, because I got to wear those cute white marching boots with the taps on the soles and the giant yarn pom poms so typical of the 1980s.

8. I also sing – I’m an alto – and one day want to sing in a women’s barbershop / Sweet Adelines group. Till then, I find my outlet in my church choir.

9. In high school musicals, I played the roles of Zaneeta Shin, Ado Annie, and Rose Alvarez… but I was not a drama queen.

10. On year in P.E., I got a “B” on my pathetic attempt at a cartwheel in gym class, issued from our rotund gym teacher. The B was probably a gift, though the irony was not lost on me. “I’d like to see HER cartwheel!” I stammered.

11. My dad died from melanoma when I was 14. (Wear your sunscreen.) People don’t know what to say to a kid whose dad has just died.

12. I am one of the three in 100,000 parents whose child has experienced a stroke.

13. I believe things must happen for a reason. If I didn’t, there’s no way I could explain or accept certain events that have happened in my life. (See previous two items.)

14. I have one biological sister, who also happens to be my sorority sister.

15. If I didn’t have kids and a big fat dog, I would so be living in the heart of DC right now.

16. I liked Harry Connick, Jr. before everyone else did. In 1990, I wrote him a fan letter and he wrote back.

17. I suck at playing team sports. But I really like watching them.

18. I know how to score a baseball game.

19. I have learned that guys really dig a girl who can talk sports.

20. I am a wicked-fast typist. In 11^th grade typing, I used to type my stuff, then type the exercise for the guy next to me. In college, I typed papers for students for a buck a page on an electric typewriter. (Yes, I am that old.)

21. About many things, I know just enough to be dangerous.

22. I love being from Pennsylvania. I’m also much happier living near DC. It turns out, you can’t always go home again.

23. I am blessed with an abundance of great friends and burdened with a complete inability to decline an invitation to a good party.

24. Of all the bosses I’ve had, I have probably learned the most from the assholes.

25. I have always liked the drummers best of all.