Mandi

Mandi is my hairdresser. I say that with a straight face, which is really something, because I'm horrible about keeping my hair trimmed, and "hairdresser" implies that I'm in there every two weeks, when in reality it's more like two or three times a year.

Anyway, when I can be bothered to remember my hair, it's Mandi who fixes it for me. I like her quite a lot, which is really saying something for me, because she's a tiny little skinny woman, and I have major issues with tiny little skinny people -- especially women. But she's so open and friendly that it just seems wrong to even consider whether she cares how fat I am. That's just the kind of person she is.

I also envy her, because she quite obviously loves her job, and she loves the salon where she works and the people she works with. She greets every customer as if they're a long-lost friend. Her memory is incredible: like I said, I'm only in there a few times a year, but she remembers who I am, and the names of my kids, and that my hair is thick but fine and that it's curly when it's wet but dries as straight as a board.

I've started taking Penny with me for haircuts, and I learned that Mandi keeps a bag of cheap toys (think Happy Meal leftovers) and an entire drawer full of candy for her young customers to pick from. Unsurprisingly, Penny also adores Mandi.

When I spend my hour in Mandi's chair, she draws me out of myself. She makes me wonder how different my life would be if I had a job I really loved. If I were a teacher, maybe... Or a writer...

It's not likely to happen, but it makes for a nice fantasy.