Wait, What?

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Having reached the end of the road with the Chia Pet look, I went to my stylist/friend and invested in a straightening process. It’s a labor intensive process (hers not mine) requiring a wash, a blow-dry, a chemical painting of some sketchy chemical or other onto my head, then another wash and another blow-dry.

(For those who know me, you can imagine how well I do sitting still for that long.)

Anyway, I got into a discussion with the woman in the next chair (also tucked in for the long haul) as well as the professionals working on us.

(A legitimate conversation is much easier on the neck than straining to eavesdrop over the salon’s impressive background noise. You can actually ask, “What?”)

Anyway, we talked British mystery shows on AcornTV. And Idris Elba. And somehow we got to politics.

The woman with the curlers said she hates Hilary so much she has to leave the room when the candidate comes on TV. As someone who originally supported Bernie I laughingly said, “But you’re not voting for Trump, are you?”

She didn’t answer.

I got seriously uncomfortable. She’d seemed lovely. While it wasn’t as bad as the exchange Keith and I had with a pro-Iraq war guy in Jiffy Lube — it was awkward.

And I had one of Those Moments. When a calculation involving the psychological possibility of actually changing someone else’s mind was weighed against the probability of spontaneous combustion that comes from holding back.

Rather than arguing the merits of Trump’s world view I decided to just mention some of the more bizarre things the man has said. Like how years ago he wondered about the future breast size of his newborn Tiffany. And how if she wasn’t his daughter he’d date Ivanka.

(But not Tiffany?)

The other client just chalked those things up to Donald being Donald. The stylists got quiet. I brought up the recent Washington Post article about the Republican candidate that pretty much described him as a congenital ass-hat. He’s been an arrogant bully since childhood.

Eventually we went back to discussing Britain. (Their television not their disastrous vote to leave the EU.) And I found myself liking her again. Particularly after she said I looked too young to be a grandmother.

But after I paid for my seriously relaxed hair, I left the salon seriously unsettled.

 

 

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