38 Miles

According to Mapquest, that's the distance between my front door and the salon I'll be going to today to get my hair done. Why? Because that's where the stylist I go to, and have followed around the county for about 10 years, works. Because once you find the person who can work magic with your hair, they own you. I'm nothing if not loyal.

I have always had a love hate relationship with my hair. When I was little, I loved having hair, hated getting it done. I wasn't "tender headed" but the tugging, pulling and hurt knuckles from those giant beads at the end of the elastic hair ties as well as  the occasional burn from the hot comb (heated on the stove) made me (and my mom) a little cranky.
   
Now, as an adult, I love getting my hair done but hate the expense and the time I have to spend on it. I love my highlights. I love the scalp massage (almost orgasmic!). I love the look of a fresh blowout. I love how shiny and bouncy my hair is when it's just been done. I love that my husband and son remember to compliment me when I get home.

I hate the three to three and half hours I spend in the salon (though with travel time there and back I get a nice amount of 'me time'). I hate the smell of the relaxer. I hate the occasional chemical burns on my scalp. But, ethnic hair is high maintenance hair so high it's ho, high ho down the freeway I go. I don't think there is anything else in my life that I will schedule 9 weeks in advance, secure a sitter and make sure the car has a full tank of gas for other than a night out with my husband which better end with sex.
   
So, if you happen to be at My Happy Place later this afternoon and see a woman who looks like me with shiny swinging hair, please stop and say and hello.  

(hot comb photo credit here)