A matter of trust

I've been seeing Richard for over 15 years now, I think, and I realize that I have total trust in the man. I know I can walk into his place, and after the usual hugs and "how are you's", I can let him do whatever he wants. Sometimes I'll tell him I'm ready for something new and different, and we might discuss it for a while, but most of the time, I let him do his thing.

Yesterday, I mentioned that the weather has hit hotandhumid again, and from his knowing smile, I knew he'd already figured out where he was going.

Sure, sometimes we've argued a little about his visions. It usually goes like this:

Richard: "But it's sexy that way."

Me: "I"m too old for sexy."

Richard: "No you're not."

Me: "I don't care about sexy if it's going to drive me nuts."

He sighs and we generally find a compromise.

So, yesterday, with complete faith that he'd do what was best, I sat in his chair. He did the thing with the plastic, towels and cape, and I opened my book, knowing I didn't need to worry. I knew that when he was finished, I'd be able to walk out and feel good about myself.

I think we get along because he's the only hair stylist I've ever been to who looks at me instead of giving me haircut number three. He'll point to a picture in one of his styling magazines and tell me what about it would work with my bone structure and hair texture. And if I have something I want to try, he'll tell me why it won't work.

We'll look through the color swatches and he'll say, 'something between this one and that one, with a little of this other one.'

I trust him. (And he gives me chocolate.)

So, I have an updated summer cut now. Shorter in back, fits my 'no more than five minutes with the dryer' request. And, per my insistence, the bangs are shorter than he wants them, because even though he says brushing them out of my eyes is sexy, it drives me nuts.