We’re running a smidgeon behind on our back-to-school haircuts and I was raring to get back into Ms. Bonnie’s chair with the hopes she’d err and accidentally cut my hair too short. And? She didn’t. I was the unthrilled recipient of a careful trim that guaranteed another 6 weeks of healthy hair growth.
I’ve written about our hair stylist and her digs before. As much as I know I can drive an hour and 1/2 south to Houston and prop myself up into the chair of a high-falootin (is that even how you spell that?), high dollar, stylist, I don’t care. The last time I went to one of those places a man with very little handle on the English language plucked my eyebrows with a thread. Seriously, a thread rolled between his fingers. I think that’s why it cost an extra $10.00. It’s how the “french” do it apparently.
Give me a break and hand over the hot, sticky, mucky, singe-your-face, out-of-the-crock-pot, dingy, yellow, wax. Add some good
gossip conversation about the local flea market/burger joint gettin’ “run over” by the new Valero being built down the highway … and I’m a’comin’ to your chair.
Now THAT is something I’ll pay $15.00 to hear. Yep, $15.00. You can roll your eyes, but Bonnie doesn’t give just any ol’ Supercut. No-sirrrreeeee, she cuts me up real good.
After I had my head done up, it was Em’s turn. She, like me, loves having her hair washed. Ohhhhhh … what feels better than a woman with long nails just a rubbin’ all over your head?
Nothing, that’s what.
I remember when I used to do this in the hairstylist’s chair.
I couldn’t criss cross apple sauce in that chair now to save my life. Okay, maybe to save my life, but then they’d have to cut the chair off me – and folks, that’d just be rude of me to destroy Ms. Bonnie’s property after she gives us such great treatment.
While Emelie was busy having her bangs cut out of her face (Lord help us all with the preteen bangs.), Meredith was checking out the latest picture of Ms. Bonnie’s daughter, the Crocodile Wrestler. Yep, you read that right. Meredith is holding in her hand a certificate of completion for a crocodile wrestling course. Attached at the bottom of the certificate is a photo of one dirty, wet, 135 lb. girl on a dirty, angry crocodile. Okay, I don’t really know if the croc was angry – how does one KNOW? He LOOKS angry though – and well, it makes for a better story, now doesn’t it?
There are few things in life I absolutely have NO DESIRE to do – and croc wrestling … it’s one of ’em.
Kenny normally spends most of our visits out on the rock pile with Ms. Bonnie’s dump trucks. You know, most hair places have those little Lego tables or books, but at Ms. Bonnie’s you can play outside with dump trucks on the rocks or inside with old perm curlers. My kids LOVE to go there. LOVE.IT.
See how joyful they are?
I named this one the Baptist Entertainment Committee. I have no idea why.
On his way out the door Kenny got caught up playing with Ms. Bonnie’s windchimes.
Ms. Bonnie has a lot of porch and yard art, as well as a serious green thumb. I’ve purchased plants I’ve seen at her place, brought them home and watched them die. Jeff is good at keeping things alive.
He says it is because he goes outside.
OH! Is that what it takes?