In any relationship that matters, there are ups and downs. Good days and bad days. Sometimes things seem perfect, and other times you're both just trying to keep it together. But when the storms have been weathered, you both come out more convinced than ever that you belong together.
I speak, of course, of my relationship with my hairstylist.
I didn't see it coming Thursday. She had always done exactly what I wanted. But as I sat in her chair Thursday night as her next appointment waited in the wings, all I could do was give her my best fake smile and answer "yeah," when she asked "Is that what you had in mind?"
I thought I would get home, take another look and realize that it wasn't so bad. I'd be able to work with it, I knew it.
But I wanted to cry when I looked at that woman in the mirror who just couldn't be me. I knew it must have been a simple miscommunication, but how did it go this wrong?
So I discussed my options with Dave, who was grieving as much over the money I had spent as I was grieving for the loss of my pretty hair.
(If I haven't told you before, I'm just a teensy bit obsessive about my hair. Ask my mom. She was forced to perfect my ponytail with no lumps and 1/4 cup of styling gel when I was in 7th grade.)
As we saw it I had two options:
1. I could buy a box of dark brown hair dye and cover it all up. This would possibly lead to the demise of the stylist/client relationship, and possibly even the husband/wife relationship because "You paid for highlights, so you're going to have highlights." Sound reasoning, for sure.
2. I could face my desperate fear of any kind of confrontation, call her, and ask her to fix it.
Then when Dave went to another room I came up with option #3, all on my own. And I texted her. This was my slightly more comfortable, much more passive way to get to work on solving the problem. Dave thought it was totally weird of me and likened it unto breaking up with boyfriends via e-mail, which I am twice guilty of. If Facebook would have been around back then I might have just used a status update to end a relationship.
"Emily is... really sorry. It's not you, it's me. Can we still be friends?"
Anyway, my stylist and I texted back and forth for the next 18 hours or so. Talking would have been much more efficient than typing my explanations out on a cell phone, but again, talking is scary.
I was nervous it would be awkward to go back, but I was going to do what it took to keep a good thing going. I scratched several stylists off the list before I found her, so I wasn't about to give up. And I'm so glad I didn't. She fixed it, I love it, and the client/stylist relationship is in tact. Now I know we have what it takes to make this a long-term arrangement.
SPEAKING of good husbands (Everyone is speaking of good husbands today), mine is pretty rad. He spent his day perched treacherously atop a ladder, painting our living room.
As I was small-talking with a Sephora employee today, he asked if I had any plans for Valentine's Day. I told him I left my husband home to paint. He didn't think that was very romantic of me.
When I told Dave about the conversation, Dave asked, "Was he a black man?"
"Yes, how did you know?"
I must have put on my best black man voice without even knowing it.