beginner�s inexperience and self-absorbed monologues.

One of the most elegant gender-defining attributes in a woman�s wardrobe is her hair. In an age where a woman finds herself free to shop in the men�s department, she can always count on her beautifully long and flowing hairstyle to distinguish her as the fairer sex. Indeed such hair is as uniquely female as goatees are male. (only without the trendy shelf-life). Its texture strong and healthy, its styling gentle and curvaceous, and its handling sensual and arousing, my hair had the power to strike envy into the souls of women and love into the hearts of men. But then, in June, in the year of our Lord 2004, I was robbed of my sensuality.

My appointment with Nicole began in the traditional format but quickly digressed into an exercise in beginner�s inexperience and self-absorbed monologues. For the grueling duration of my appointment, I was reminded less of my prior spa-like experiences and more of my sessions of reconstructive dentistry.

Nicole opened with a critique of my hairstyle saying that �Very few people can part their hair in the middle� with the implication that I was obviously in the majority who cannot. She discussed many things such as how �in shape� she was and how difficult it was for her to shop for clothes. During these monologues, to which I listened with amusement, she aptly demonstrated his multi-tasking capabilities by taking no fewer than 4 (four) phone calls, which punted her mood between feminist indifference and money-collecting anger. After taking off far too much hair and half-heartedly washing it, she proceeded to blow-dry it with such intense heat that I had to inform her of my anguish on two closely-spaced occasions.

Earlier, while shoving my head into the washbasin, Nicole informed me that she accepts only cash as payment for her�um, services. Part of me almost commended her on her foresight as her ineptitude would certainly culminate in a plethora of chargebacks. The other part wanted to protest�to plead my case�to tell Nicole that she ought to be paying me for robbing me of my once beautiful and awe-inspiring follicles but remembered that my neck was arched like a sacrificial lamb�s and after the rage that had come upon her during one of her financial phone calls, I was afraid that she may have a straight razor nearby.

As I left the salon, I seethed in my resentment and cursed the friend who gave me Nicole�s coupon. My scalp was seared well-done and little crispy hair remnants stood up in mute protest at the horrors which had befallen them. My innocence shattered, my hair butchered and my wallet considerably thinner, I limped away vowing to never again set foot into the torture chamber that is Nicole's Stylist chair or that salon.

Sincerely,

Beth Ann Davis