Hallowed be thy Mane

There's only one person in the world who can tell you what's best for you and it isn't your mother. It's not your father or any of your teachers. It's not your boyfriend or girlfriend, or even the Surgeon General of the United States. The person who I trust the most is none other than my stylist.

When you think about it, this makes a lot of sense. I've seen enough episodes of Forensic Files to know that you can't always place your trust in your parents or your lovers because they may have taken out a bunch of life insurance policies that they'll eventually cash in after your 'mysterious' fall off a cliff in Big Sur. Stylists have their reputations to consider, and reputations are a lot like mirrors. Once it's broken, it can never be repaired. If a stylist is known to butcher hair, it will come back to haunt him or her when they find that their appointment books are empty.

Going to your stylist is also a lot cheaper than seeing a therapist. You sit in a chair and talk to someone about your day or whatever is bothering you at the moment, and you get some great advice. It's mostly because they hate hearing your whine about your problems and want you to shut up, but there are some stylists who actually care enough about what's going on in their clients' personal lives.

I once went against my stylist's advice and demanded that he cut my hair extremely short. It was the beginning of Summer, and I wanted a no-nonsense 'do that I wouldn't have to worry about when I'm laying on my back getting pleasured by one of my gentlemen callers in front of the video camera. I just hate playing back the video and noticing my messed up hair. It's so untidy!

Because of the thickness of my hair and the odd shape of my head, I ended up looking like a really bad Chia Pet ten days after the haircut. I have a bit of a receding hairline, so it looked like some kid forgot to evenly spread the seeds on my head. I also have a scar on the back of my head, and people kept stopping me and asking me if I got nicked by the razor. My stylist is very good at hiding the scar when he cuts it normally, but now it was exposed and ready for people to stare at.

Two weeks later, I walked into the salon with a head full of shaggy hair and my tail between my legs. Not once did my stylist do Grace's "told ya so" song from Will and Grace. He just shook his head and clipped away, proceeding to gossip about the hot men in the chairs next to me like nothing ever happened.

Lesson learned! Always trust the stylist, especially when he's got sharp objects so close to your jugular vein.

I also learned that you're not supposed to refer to them as barbers or hairdressers. That's like referring to a parking enforcement agent as a meter maid.