We’ve been talking lately about truth being stranger than fiction. And this week, I’ve been telling you about my sister’s sleepwalking escapades. Yesterday, I told you how my sister is not normally an aggressive person when she’s awake and that stress often triggers her sleepwalking.
Well, a couple of years after yesterday’s adventure, we were living back in Florida. Michelle worked for an attorney that was, shall we say, the epitome of the reason they make bad attorney jokes. Her boss was persistently a dill weed, and daily, she’d come home nearly in tears.
Personally, I’m one who, if you’re not going to do anything to help yourself out of a bad situation, I don’t care to hear you complain about it. So I told her, “You were looking for a job when you found that one. Either tell your boss how you feel and hope that he changes, or quit and find something else. It’s that simple.” She insisted that was impossible and that I didn’t understand. And she ended up as angry with me as she was with her boss.
The next morning, I woke up late. As I arose, I noticed my scissors were lying on the dresser by my bed, and were not where I normally kept them. I assumed one of my kids had used them and never gave them another thought.
I had to be somewhere, and I was late. So instead of my normal morning routine, I brushed my teeth and threw my hair in a ponytail without combing it. (My hair is long and very thick and wavy, so I sometimes don’t brush it anyway, because when I do, I tend to look like Gilda Radner’s “Saturday Night Live” character, Roseanne Roseannadanna, if she had orange hair. — The point being, this was not unusual for me to forego the hairbrush.)
I left and went about my business for several hours. Then on my way home, I was stuck in traffic. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a few odd pieces of short hair sticking straight up from my ponytail. I took out the rubber band and felt the back of my head, only to discover that I was bald! Okay, I wasn’t technically bald, but there was a section of my hair about the size of the diameter of a large orange that was cut to the scalp! (Yes, really!) Luckily, as I said, I have thick hair, so if I wore it down, the top part covered it. But I was mortified!
It was at that point that I remembered the misplaced scissors, and when I got home, I rightfully accused Michelle of giving me a haircut in my sleep. Of course she didn’t think she could ever be guilty of such an act of violence, but just one day later when we had to have our landlord out to snake the toilet in her bathroom, he found handfuls upon handfuls of my hair! It took another year for me to even be able to go get a professional haircut and get it somewhat “fixed.” Lesson learned: I now lock my door at night!
What’s the worst haircut you’ve ever had? Are you sure the barber or stylist was actually awake when they did it?