“She’s working at Tribez now,” Joanne said of our mutual hairdresser, at our monthly memoir meeting. “In Blackhawk.”
“Blackhawk?” I whined. “All the way out there?”
Joanne frowned. “It’s not that far. And besides, you only see her once a month.”
“Correction,” I snapped. “She trims my bangs between cuts, too.”
Weary of my complaining, my friend rolled her eyes and got up to pour another cup of tea.
Tammy and I shared a long history. Over the years, she guided me through the dark days of awkward outgrowth from a short, layered cut to a smooth chin-length bob. A decade later, despite her valiant, but failed efforts to dissuade me from my foolish notion of restoring my hair to its natural color, she didn’t judge when I begged her to transform that hideous flat, gray-streaked taupe to a youthful faux flaxen. I had even recommended her to friends in search of a new stylist.
Nevertheless, I could see no reason to follow my mane maven to her new locale. According to Google Maps (yes, I looked it up), it was a gas-tank-emptying 6.2 miles, and thirteen minutes by Google’s estimate – over twice, repeat, twice – the 2.8 miles from my house to her old salon (I looked that up, too). Plus, Blackhawk was so upscale I got a nosebleed whenever I drove through the tony neighborhoods. Continue reading