Everyone has a guilty pleasure. This is known as (according to Wiki) a “something” one considers pleasurable despite feeling guilt for enjoying it. For some people it is watching “America’s Next Top Model,” for others it is their complete collection of Whitesnake albums. Ice cream, Godiva chocolates, Halo 3, etc. For me – it is going to the hairstylist. There is something about having someone play with your hair for 2 hours, washing and drying, coloring and cutting, blow-drying and styling that is very fun and pleasurable for me. Each time, I walk into the salon with no restrictions or requirements (other than to cover my grays) and walk out with a fun and different style. I’ve gone extraordinarily short, grown it out past my shoulder-blades and had it many lengths in between. I’ve tried white blonde (bad), deep purple (awesome), natural-looking highlights, unnatural looking highlights, one color or four, basically anything you can imagine. And I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE it.
My hairstylist is on maternity leave. I have found this to be very inconvenient and inconsiderate. Which I plan on making very clear to her when I am waiting in her chair on the day she gets back. 
Here’s the story:
I’ve had kind of rough time lately. Lots of things out of my control as well as feeling like I was failing miserably at the things I could control. It had been nearly 3 months since getting my hairs cut and I had been wearing it in a ponytail everyday. sad. My fabulous friend Liz offered to call her stylist to see if she could squeeze me in for some much needed pampering and was successful. Julie was very sweet and I think she did a very nice job with my hair. My gray hairs are currently invisible; I have a fun new color and a cute, short cut. But I left feeling unsatisfied.
I brooded on it this evening, trying to figure out what my problem was, and finally came to the conclusion that it wasn’t any one problem, but a handful of tiny little things that Julie simply did differently. My stylist, Tara, has had the past six years to get to know my quirks and my preferences. She knows for instance that if she spends just 30 extra seconds massaging the conditioner into my head that I will sigh with contentment. She knows that when she puts me under the dryer to process that I love to read the most recent issue of People magazine and that we’ll disagree on who is looking particularly beautiful that month. She knows my son’s name and always asks after him. I trust her with my hair to the point that if she told me that I would look my absolute best if she shaved my head bald, I’d let her do it and tip her extra. Julie had known me about 6 seconds prior to starting her routine.
So here is the lesson, children. Most of our guilty pleasures are pretty harmless as long as they are not overdone. But when the grocery store simply doesn’t have Chunky Monkey, do not for a moment think that Cherry Garcia will satisfy you in the same way. Lower your expectations. Then spend an extra moment savoring the Cherry flavor for what it is, rather than what it is not.
I’ll post pictures once I figure out how to style it in a way I like. 
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