Rich: A good stylist always comes through

For me, every trip to the beauty shop is an adventure in some way. And, without fail, it's immensely entertaining.

First of all, Sandy, my hairdresser, is one of the most delightful women in the world. She is fall-down funny so it's worth the visit just for the sideshow.

Then, there are all the stories that come out of going to the beauty shop.

There was the time when she cut the front of my hair so short that it looked vaguely reminiscent of the time when I was 5 years old and had taken the scissors to my hair then coated it with cod liver oil, which I regularly drank like a drunk drinks whiskey. Both times, it was not a pretty sight.

I kept calling the shop and rescheduling my appointment until it was almost three months between cuts. Of course, every time I called, I told the receptionist, "Tell Sandy that she cut my hair so short last time that I may never need another cut."

Sandy, forever the good sport, was waiting for me when I arrived the next time. She pointed her comb at me and said, "Now sit down and be quiet. Don't talk to me while I'm cutting your hair. You distract me. From now, we cannot talk while I am working on your hair."

I froze. No talking. No news. No finding out who's marrying who, who died, who switched from the Baptist church to the Methodist? Hmmm. I think I'd rather have a bad haircut.

So we compromised. We can talk when she's shampooing, coloring, drying, teasing or fluffing. But the moment the scissors hit her hand, complete quiet must be laid at the altar of good Southern hair.

On one visit, Sandy was - I suppose you would call it boasting - that in her 20 years of hairdressing, she only had been out sick one day. Of course, when you only work part time, that's less impressive, but impressive, nonetheless. Some would call what happened next "ironic." I called it "tragic."

Early on the