By Lorry Myers
When she was a little girl, my daughter’s grand ambition was to be a hair stylist. She would coax her younger sister to perch in front of her while she created beauty with bobby pins and hair bows. Hilary begged me to sit on the floor in front of the couch and pretend I was a customer in her salon that I suggested she call “The Cut N Curl”, because it sounded just like her.
Hilary wasn’t having it.
My daughter was blessed with curly hair, something she considers a curse. As a young girl, Hilary longed to look in the mirror and see anything but what she saw. Some of that curly trait comes from me, and some of it from her father. While my hair is flat and fine, Hilary’s hair will be sticking up, looking like she’s been on the wildest ride of her life.
That’s the part she gets from her father.
And that’s who she called in desperation from a sleepover where a game of hair stylist went horribly wrong. This time, Hilary was the client and her friend, Erica, was the stylist that worked in the new Cut N Clip, (not the Cut N Curl). Erica was determined to tame the client’s wild mane.
An almost impossible task.
Erica, from the Cut N Clip, gave it her all using all the combs and brushes she had in the house. She was a new stylist though, and had never experienced hair like Hilary’s. The more Erica brushed the unruly locks, the more they grew and grew. What once was a bad case of bedhead quickly turned into the head of Medusa.
Things were not going well at the Cut N Clip.
When her dad picked her up, Randy found a hairbrush buried in Hilary’s hair. Randy tugged and tried and considered every option before father and tearful daughter finally decided to have a consultation with Mom, the real boss of Hilary’s Cut N Clip.
A call that was long overdue.
When I got home, I didn’t know who to calm first, my little girl or the grown man who was shrieking like a girl, his hair sticking up worse than his daughters. Randy’s toolbox was open on the dining room table while Hilary rigidly sat on a chair, her eyes puffy and pleading. There embedded in the back of her head was a round hairbrush with a broken handle. It was so tangled and twisted and turned round and around that Hilary’s scalp shone bright red and she flinched every time I wiggled the brush. It didn’t take the boss of the Cut N Clip long to decide that there was only one way that brush was coming out.
Time to get the sewing scissors.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard