I abosolutely love getting my hair cut ... usually, that is. Yesterday I went to the same place as always, but got a stylist I hadn't had before. He gave me a thorough massage, which was fantastic, and lulled me into a sense of complaceny. When he started using a razor for the cut, I remarked that no one had done that before but I didn't say anything else. Things were still going fine when he started SCRAPING THE BACK OF MY NECK. HARD. Now, I'm rather self-conscious about my hairline - as much as I love our non-human primate relatives, I'm not proud that I have hair on my nape that would rival a chimp's. When I wasn't eating, I was half-bald, but my shoulders and upper back were covered in this dark body-fuzz that still hasn't entirely gone away. My stylist spent a long, agonizing time back there ... or maybe it just felt that way. On top of all that, he ruffled me into a guinea-pig-like state and then fogged me with hairspray. Alcohol-based spray + raw neck skin = OUCHIE. And he took length off in the front when I told him that I liked how it was.
And I still tipped him. Because not to do so would be rude, right?
Dammit. I need to be more assertive.