I had a hair appointment this evening. The stylist was a no show. I am pissed. Please reference this post if you are not familiar with the frustrations I have when it comes to beauticians/beauty shops/stylists/insert-your-preferred title here.
And please note that I am not judging the aforementioned profession as a whole. I am, however, judging those that I encounter with alarming frequency.
This is the second time that I have shown up for an appointment with this particular young lady only to be told, with quite a bit of nonchalance, “oh, she been gone.” The last time I didn’t say anything. I don’t know if I’ll say anything this time.
Since Smoochy has started driving, my getting to a hair appointment looks something like this: leave work, pick up dinner for Lovegirl – usually something that ends in “meal” and not the tasty, healthy goodness I prefer her to eat, pick Lovegirl up from school, drop Lovegirl off at her old sitter’s house, drive over to salon. Go into salon. Hope that person who does my hair is there.
My time is precious. I skipped the gym for this. I left my child in someone else’s care for way longer than I prefer to in one day. I drove all over the city.