I shouldn’t be miffed

But I am.

Went to get my hair cut this afternoon, a necessity I try to avoid, because I have never been enamored of beauty parlor/spa/salon-type places.  Granted they don’t smell quite so bad as in the fifties, and the implements no longer look as if they were created to produce a legion of Brides for The Monster.  There is one thing, though that will most likely still be around this time next century (assuming anything of human civilization is still around).

What do you bet that no matter what future grooming entails, the practitioners will want to talk.

Can’t I just get it over with and get out?

No.  Couldn’t when I was so young I had to sit on a stack of phone books and catalogues and magazines to have my hair “done”, and I can’t fifty odd years later.  I understand that the business is not gender-specific, but I’d be willing to bet that the average man going in for a haircut will not have to face what I did this afternoon.  A bridal party.  Not just a group of people getting ready for a wedding.  No.  It was a freaking PARTY.  All the females preparing for the big event were brought in a chartered bus (which filled half the parking lot), and were wining and schmoozing and having their hair and makeup done whilst having a lovely time chattering like so many starlings.

And I had to wait for them.  Appointment or no.

Why not leave?  I did not want to be rude.  God, but I am so southern I make my own self sick.

I waited through a couple of cups of coffee.

It was only about the same time my stylist appeared that I found that I could have been getting properly sloshed on gratis wine instead.  Such is life.