My broke ass cheated on my stylist

I love my stylist.  She's brilliant, funny, open, and really, really talented.  I tell everyone I know to go to her (if you're in Austin go to Keith Kristopher Salon and book Deanne -- see? Now I really just told everyone I know).  She's a colorist guru and a whiz with the scissors.

However, after tip, I will have spent nearly $200 on a cut and a color.  Definitely worth every penny, but when you're on a budget as tight as mine there's really no way of reconciling the expense.  -- In fact, it's a testament to her coloring genius that even after 7 months, my new growth color gently fades into the work she did.  People pay mega bucks to get this ombré look she gave me naturally. --  Brilliant or not, I simply can't see her, yet.  She'll be the first thing I do for myself after I get a job. 

The last few weeks my hair has almost reached what I call "stripper hair" length.  I cocktailed in a titty bar for a few months in my early 20s (lawd, the stories I could tell you!) and I noticed that at least half the dancers had Lady Godiva hair.  They used their locks for false modesty while parading around the tables of men and as organic props on stage.  So yeah, anyway, my hair is almost that long.  And it's screaming for some help. 

I look like a washed up stripper on a bad day: ends frayed and splitting; like Yulia Tymoshenko on a good day (she's the Ukrainian prime minister, in case you didn't know): hair up in braids in some fashion to hide the secret stripper lurking beneath the surface.

Today, I did what I've been dreading for weeks now: I cheated on Deanne.  I went to a different stylist.

I was racked with guilt as I sat in the barber's chair and even told the orange-haired stylist as much.  But I simply can't turn down a $27 hair cut.  I can't. 

And so another woman's hands were on my head and her stylistic impressions were made on my hair.   I have no idea if Deanne will look at her work in a few months and know what I did.   I feel so dirty!  So guilty!  So wrong!!

Finding a stylist you trust and can rely on is almost as hard as finding a decent relationship.  He or she holds in their hands the power of esteem and beauty.  One misstep and your superficial life can be ruined (I once passed up free Pearl Jam tickets because I was busy sobbing over a mullet I got when I was 19.  God, that was horrible.).  It's a big fucking deal to form a lasting business/personal relationship with this person.  Maybe I seem silly, but I don't care. 

So, yeah, the split ends are gone, the stripper hair is beaten back, and feel like I'm taking care of myself, but I also feel like sending Deanne a bouquet of "I'm Sorry, Please Forgive Me. It's Just I'm Really, Really Broke" flowers.

At least I refuse to use a box o' color.  I draw the line of frugality there.  I'll grow all my hair out to its natural color before I destroy it with a DIY attitude.