Poor Becca, My Stylist

I am a pretty private person (Well, I was before I started spilling my guts on this blog, anyway). I usually don't go around telling people about when my husband got laid off, that my son won't wipe his own butt or that sometimes the laundry pile in the basement gets so big its seriously a fire hazard. I'm actually a quiet person; a self-conscious, nerdy, quiet mouse.

Something happens to me when I sit down in the chair at the hair salon (and apparently the same phenomenon happens here in my kitchen when I sit to write my blogs). My poor stylist Becca, I only see her about once every six weeks. So, it all builds up and as soon as I sit down and hand her my purse, my mouth opens the flood gates and it all comes gushing out! It's like an infected blister that gets popped, poor Becca. I wonder if other people do this to her, too? I've heard bartenders are often like psychologists behind the bar. What about hair stylists? I'm not much of a drinker, so I don't talk to the bar tender enough to confess everything to him, and real psychologists are too expensive (although for what Becca charges, she should have a doctorate degree).

I think maybe I tell it all to Becca, because it doesn't really matter if she doesn't like me. I can always go to another stylist, and they'll cut my hair just fine. Telling my secrets to Becca is a way to test my pusy, disgusting, petrified truth, before putting it out there to the people in my life who could hurt me.

I just made my appointment for two weeks from now, with Becca. I've been saving up some juicy details of my life to share with her, poor Becca. If she doesn't run out screaming, I'll share it all with the rest of you soon.