Happy Little Trees

I've been letting my hair grow. Or Giovanni has been letting my hair grow. He's my hairstylist.

It took awhile to find a hairstylist that I liked. I had a dear friend from home that I loved to have cut my hair--but she's a few too many miles away and probably retired by now. I pay Giovanni about 10 times what I paid her.

Giovanni isn't crazy expensive compared to other stylists around, but even if he was, I would sell plasma for his haircuts. Because I don't just pay for Giovanni's amazing cutting skills, I also pay for his honesty and his ability to not chop off all my hair.

I stopped telling Giovanni what I like. Sometimes I do say, "Bangs," or "No bangs." I let him decide what needs to be done.

He taught me to stop using ponytail holders that were breaking my hair to bits. He taught me that I can be post-30 and still have longer hair. And he never fails to compliment me on my hair color.

I am getting a few grays--or whites, and I keep asking Giovanni when it's time to color. He always says in his great Italian accent, "You know I tell you the truth. I will tell you when it's time to color your hair. It's not time yet."

But the last time I went in, I said, "Is it time?" And he said, "I will let your hair turn white before I color it. There's no way to recreate it."

So, I guess I go white. It's kind of nice not having to think about haircuts anymore. And I honestly take a lot better care of it, because it's like I want a good grade from my hairstylist...and he'll lecture me if I don't do what he says, but in an Italian accent!