I ran into the mall this morning to see my stylist; I could no longer see through my bangs and it was starting to get annoying and ugly.
My day started out 15 minutes before I was supposed to arrive with a ‘holy shit, I have to be there in 15 minutes’ and the worlds’ quickest bathroom routine. I did manage to make it on time [he’s always running late, anyway], but was uncaffeinated and still checking to make sure I had all the requisite clothes and contact lenses – never mind if they matched.
I sat down in his chair and we did the how-are-you-doing thing, to which he replied: ‘good! I’m going to be moving’.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘how nice! Are you buying a place?’ thinking that there are just so many condos going up everywhere, it’s not strange at all that my stylist should purchase an apartment.
No, duh, he’s moving salons. Downtown – to Yaletown. [at this point I apparently made a face] It’s not near my little suburb – certainly not within a 15 minute panic drive – and not really near my work.
There is some sort of migratory mecca for stylists in the downtown area. I’ve had three that I’ve adored since moving to the lower mainland [and a few that I didn’t], and now all three have gone downtown. Understandably, of course, and I even followed the last one, for a while. And I’ll follow this one too. He’s a sweetheart and, hey, most importantly, I like what he does with my hair.
He’ll be sending out an information package to all his clients, so I’ll be in the know of the where, the when and the how much. He’s looking forward to it, and it’s hard to be cranky when it will be a good move for him.
It just means that I have to get up on time.