Yes, it's so disturbingly early.
I was awoken by a text from a friend saying we should drive to Dunfermline tomorrow instead of taking the train. (I'm going to Dunfermline tomorrow - er, today.) I should've nodded and rolled back over, but my brain went into overdrive. What if it takes longer to drive, and we don't give ourselves time? What if it's really tough directions? What if the train is the better option? So there I was, 3.28am with the gears churning in my head, and I was awake.
Thank goodness for my laptop and my neighbour's wireless internet.
I spent the last 45 minutes drawing an intricate map and copying down the Google Maps directions word-for-word and texting back and forth with my insomniac friend.
Then I started reading blogs. Because, you know, it's only around 9-11pm in the States and so people have probably posted since I last checked.
And then VeryMom wrote a post (gosh, I'm so glad she's back!) that reminded me of a story so blah blah blah 4.42 and here I go.
I used to go to Supercuts for my hair. (Yes, I know, throw all your hairbrushes and straightening irons right at my face, I deserved anything that came to me.) And it's worth mentioning I had SHORT pixie-cut hair (very little photographic evidence exits, funnily enough, just pictures of it growing out). So, you know, probably would've been worth paying money for a proper cut.
But this story isn't so much about the cut, as the Lori-has-a-total-mean-streak-that-gets-her-into-a-lot-of-trouble-sometimes story.
So Amanda and I walk in. Because Supercuts takes walk-ins, which is how you know they are quality. There are two girls working. One is cutting a man's hair, the other is, I don't know, twiddling her thumbs or trying to fix her undershave or something. At any rate, we are not acknowledged. After a ridiculous amount of time on a man's cut, the other woman finishes her "client"'s hair and takes Amanda back for her shampoo. The other girl wanders to the back and doesn't return. I become annoyed. I wait. I check the clock. Amanda starts getting styled. The other girl doesn't return.
45 minutes pass.
Finally, as Amanda is getting blow-dried, the other woman emerges from her black hole. She looks at me: "Are you ready?" Angry, absolutely furious, I am. I respond, "Well, I was ready 45 minutes ago. Now I am no longer interested in getting my hair cut, thank you very much." The woman kind of shrugs and goes back into the back. Amanda's stylist asks Amanda to wait a moment and follows her back.
Five minutes later, a man comes racing into the "salon" and darts into the back. Then I hear sirens. Then two paramedics arrive. They carry the woman out on a stretcher. The man is petrified. Everyone in the salon (now, me, Amanda, her stylist and a few other women who overheard my little tantrum) is staring at each other, all wide-eyed and concerned. The ambulance speeds away, and Amanda asked her stylist if she knew what happened. Yes. Apparently she'd just gone into premature labour.
Premature labour?! She didn't even look pregnant! (She was a bit of a bigger girl though, so I guess maybe we just couldn't tell.) The stylist mentioned (pointedly?) that she'd been in the back all that time with really sharp pains.
Amanda thanked and paid her stylist. We left the salon. And yes, the whole time we talked about what a total jerk I am. I never went back.
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