It is simply amazing what an hour with Richard can do to my mood. Seriously, a good gossip session with that man is better than drugs or possibly even chocolate.
And the man is a Hair God. A deity, I tell you.
My hair is flat. Flatter than Indiana. And limp. Limper than an old man in need of Viagra.
So for 25 years, I used a curling iron to add body, any body please, to my hair. Twenty five years of standing at the bathroom sink with a hot device of torture.
Since I've been rendezvousing with Richard, the curling iron is like a bad memory. I just don't need it any more. (Or, maybe I do, but I'm just delusional in my attempts to justify the cost of Richard's services.)
I don't know what he does. Maybe it's excellent scissors technique or maybe he's rubbing cocaine directly into my scalp, but my hair definitely has more body now.
So I'm going to start a new religion. The Cult of Richard. He, of course, is the deity and I'm one of his followers. As each hair appointment approaches, I'm going to light candles and chant verses that will keep him in the best of health so he'll never have to cancel on me.
All hail Richard, the High Priest of Hair.