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Blackhawk or Bust

Okies 1I loved Tammy, but it was time to move on.

“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

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