I don’t really care who cuts my hair. On only one occasion in the past ten years have I left the barber shop feeling like I won the lottery. Probably if I were genetically blessed with better hair, or if I had more patience, or if I were willing to spend a mortgage payment on my follicles, I could leave feeling better.
On that one successful occasion my hair was cut by a young Persian Canadian who really knew his stuff. I don’t know what he was doing working at the barber shop–he definitely could have worked at a more upscale place.
When I went back, I was informed that he had indeed moved on. Nobody seemed to know where he worked. Someone mentioned a town about an hour drive from where I lived. Had they been able to tell me the exact place, I would have driven, regardless of the kilometres.
My last haircut, while not dramatically different or all that fashionable did prompt at least a couple of compliments. So, I returned to the shop, hoping that the same hairstylist would be there to cut my hair. I blogged about leaving her a tip with an old two dollar bill. (click on the link if you want to revisit that one)
No. It wasn’t meant to be. She either quit or was fired that morning. Everyone was rather hush hush about it, so I suspect that she was fired. Nobody seemed to know where she was going to be cutting hair next, but after a couple of hours, I wouldn’t expect them to know.
So, that’s a bummer.
Did I let it ruin my day? No. I got an average haircut and went in search of electrolytes for next weekend’s rides. I ate some lunch and went about my day. Is there a lesson here? Probably, but until I get some perspective, I will probably think I am the kiss of death on hairstylists.