Three days after the shooting at Salon Meritage, I saw my stylist at her shop between the DQ and a vacant child psychology office. It’s her third shop in fifteen years. When you find someone who saves you from yourself every four to six weeks, you follow her.
She doesn’t do manicures.
She tolerates my box color. She lifts the thin hair from the crown of my head and does everything she can think of to keep it from falling back down. She asks, “is this ok, is the water too hot, is your neck ok?” With that kind of talk, my stylist takes away the sins of the world.
If someone came in and shot us in the act, like what happened at Salon Meritage, I believe my stylist would shield my eyes from the spray while her other hand blessed my sorry crown and checked to see if I needed one more round with the texturizing shears.