Stabbed

Sunday I treated myself to a cut and color session (before the skunk stripe got embarrassing). I bailed on the snooty salon and tried something a little less fussy, which I immediately loved because the owner's tiny Persian cat was lolling on the sofa, taking a sunbath. That, and the staff spoke Russian and referred to someone as a cyka, which is my all-time favorite Russian word.

It means bitch. I managed to chatter a little with them in Russian, although if they had asked me anything, I would've gone blank. Four years in high school, four in university, and I'm pretty much down to insults and asking for the loo. But that seems to do the trick when necessary.

The cut was not the best ever--my bangs are too short and too blunt. But they'll grow.

However, in a weird afterbit, on Monday I realized I had a pebble in my shoe. Went to take it out, nothing. Walked 4 steps, ow ow ow. Examined my "I hate you for taking away the sandals, cyka" foot and still, nada. Or in Russian, neechevo.

Went home, did the bright light and squint, and lo, there was the faintest bit of a splinter or glass, well under the skin. My husband attempted to either poke it out with tweezers or amputate, while I screamed into a pillow. Oh, the screaming.

Yesterday I dutifully called the doctor, and marched in for the terrifying slicing open of my now infected foot. And in mere minutes, he managed to pull out the offending boulder of agony: a freshly cut and dyed hair.

I have been stabbed by a hair. A good inch, straight up. And it bled, madly.

I suppose it's time for me to admit that my hair is indeed coarse, and not silky.