Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Nice Hair

So here’s how it all went down.

I was at the chiropractor, getting adjusted. For those of you whose insurance plans don’t rock your faces off and therefore might not be familiar with getting adjusted, just know that it involves lying on your stomach on a padded bench with your face shoved into a piece of butcher paper that’s been draped over what is best described as a padded toilet seat cover and that no matter what you do, when you get up, you will look like you’ve been ugly-face-crying.

When I was done, I stood up and quickly beat my hair back behind my shoulders. Before I could make it around the corner to commence damage control on the mascara blobs that had taken up residence on my cheeks and forehead, the lady at the next adjustment table smiled at me and said, “Nice hair.” I said, “Thanks,” and then disappeared around the corner without really thinking, because I was focused on the task at hand.

But once my face started looking a little more like a face and a little less like a Rorschach test, I really started to wonder...was that lady making fun of me?

I’d like you all to do me a favor. Flip your head over forward so all your hair hangs down to the floor. Now flip it back. It probably looks like crap now, doesn’t it? No? Well good for you. I guess you’re too suave and good looking to be my friend. The thing is, my hair would look like crap if I did that, especially if it was curly, which it was that day.

Here’s the deal: I’m lazy. (Pretending to be shocked isn’t gonna earn you any brownie points. I’m not actually sitting there with you. You know what would earn you some brownie points though? Brownies.) So on those days when I know I absolutely must wash my hair because it’s been three days since my last shower, if it’s a choice between sleep and having enough time to blow dry and straighten my hair, sleep is gonna win out every single time. Every. Single. Time. So yesterday, like most days of its kind, I spritzed some good-smelling sticky crap all over my wet hair and called it done. It's sloppy and it never looks quite as good as straight hair, but I got married for a reason! I don't need to impress you people!

I have half a mind to call my chiropractor’s office and find out who that “lady” (I wanna see some finger quotes here, people) was so I could show up at her next appointment, find out whether or not she was making fun of me, and then do one of two things.

1) If she was not making fun of me, I’ll present her with the cookies I will have prepared beforehand in case I should find myself in just such an awkward misunderstanding as this.

2) If she was making fun of me, I’ll kick things off (pun intended) with a roundhouse kick to the neck, effectively cancelling out all the corrective chiropractic care she’s undergone in the past few months, and then end by informing her that the dude who was waiting for her in the lobby the other day (I assume her boyfriend) asked me if I’d “care to join him in having a juice box,” because THAT HAPPENED. That’s right! Your skeezy excuse for a boyfriend hit on a married lady! WITH A JUICE BOX! Not only is he an unfaithful homewrecker; he’s also dumb as a brick. Congratulations! You made fun of my hair and I will see to it that you pay for it for the rest of your life!!! THE REST OF YOUR LIIIIIIIFE!!!!!! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

UPDATE: Apparently they’re not “allowed” to give out patients’ personal information because that would be “against the law” thanks to a little thing called “HIPAA”...so I guess this is all a nonissue. Guess I'll just have to kick someone else.

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