The salad girl at work is a hairdresser, Sicilian, and she's been cutting the staff's hair.
I'd been there once, gotten mine cut, she did a good job, and then after she would serve dollar store biscuits and coffee and her husband would talk about how waiters shouldn't be tipped and nobody here knows what their doing and isn't real estate expensive until your eyes rolled back in your head and you bled from your ears...
She wouldn't take any money for the cut, and the visit grew a little overly long, strained, tiny cups of espresso, stale biscuits and giant old-world opinions...
So on Saturday, I'd been warned I needed a trim, a busy day with registering the vehicle, insurance, errands, I stop along the way for a generic haircut. I'm long past the point where a haircut can make me look good, and the quick in-out pay option appeals to me, I get it done in half an hour...I've no hairdresser loyalty whatsoever...
But at work she spies I've had my hair cut, by another, and the shit hits the fan, this is the worst haircut ever, that she's ever seen (it's not that bad, really), and why didn't I call her...and I can't really explain but she's now carrying a grudge, an imagined slight to her talents in this department, and I'm damned, damned, damned...