My regular stylist’s next available appointment was two weeks out. My hair was already shaggy dog long. I couldn’t go without a haircut for another two weeks. I had no recourse. I would have to make an appointment with another stylist. The horror!

My stylist recommended the colleague who cuts her hair for her. I suppose that was somewhat reassuring but I was still very uneasy. Going to a new hair stylist sends me into a certain panic known to every woman–mortal fear of the butchered haircut. Assurances that it will grow back again if the stylist misses the mark do not assuage that primal fear. Once your hair is butchered, every day is a bad hair day. If you don’t have a wig, you have to wear a hat. I know, believe me.

My hair was butchered twice in the past. Both instances occurred after moving to a new state and having to find a new hair stylist. I was so desperate to find a good hairstylist when we moved south, I was willing to throw my firstborn son under the bus to get a recommendation. His teacher called me in for a conference because Firstborn and two of his buddies were misbehaving and disrupting the class. I took one look at her incredibly gorgeous hair and told her she could do whatever she wanted to my son as long as she gave me the name and number of her stylist. Hey, I’m not proud of that, but one does what one must.

My hair is Mediterranean thick and dark (if you overlook the gray) and completely unmanageable if it grows out too long. It usually takes a while for a stylist to become accustomed to my wild and crazy mane, whether I happen to be wearing it long or short. Once I find a stylist who does a great job on my hair, I’m Linus and she’s my security blanket.

When I was a young girl, I had long hair. My mom liked my hair long, and she brushed it into gigantic ringlets every morning. Eventually, my mom figured I was old enough to go with her to her stylist for a trim. After only briefly thinning, texturizing, and hacking away (I think he used a machete), her stylist dubbed my hair “the forest that never ends.” He complained that his cutting hand and wrist needed physical therapy after each appointment with me.

Well, folks, yesterday was the day of reckoning. I sat in another stylist’s chair, knees knocking, fully expecting the worst. Much to my relief, it never happened. She didn’t butcher my hair. In fact, she did a terrific job. My hair looked great! My regular stylist came over and gave the cut her stamp of approval. She said that my missed appointment was a blessing in disguise, because now I knew that there was more than one stylist I could count on to do a good job on my hair. (She kind of left out the part about me not panicking anymore if I needed a cut when she was on vacation or called in sick.)

So, as it turned out, I now have two security blankets. Life is good.