Haircut Fiasco

It's been ages since I last cut my hair. I needed a new look, a new style, something that took me out of my current funk. I decided on Sunday morning that today was the day. The boys were getting a haircut, I would ride with and update my mane. As we were getting ready, the phone rang, and Lucy (short for Lucifer, my mom's pet name) called that Mike wanted to come home. My dad was already on the way with him, he pulled up before I hung up the call.
The boys went to get a haircut, I stayed home. Did the usual, laundry, cleaning, dishes. When my husband walked through the door, he told me to go ahead.
"Honey, I just got my hair done with Stacy and she did a good job." He knew I was hesitant for just anyone to cut my hair, my regular hair dresser would only see me on Saturdays, I couldn't wait I was head set, this would happen today.
"Ok, I will call."
I called and the little boy on the line said that she was almost done, he would write my name in for the next seat. I headed over and walked in.
"I am here for Stacy." He looked at me puzzled.
"Did you call?"
"I did." There was no sign of my name, he jotted my name down on a paper and put the paper to the corner. Possibly the corner just for Stacy. I sat down and read a magazine.
About this hair cutting place, there is a certain hair dresser that scares the bejesus out of me, she looks like this.

I avoid eye contact, conversations and any kind of possible run ins with her. She is less than 5 foot tall, wears heavy make up, has a nose that was flattened, possibly she slept on her face as an infant. *But aren't there doctors that fix that stuff for free, all she needs to do is move into a tent in a foreign country and apply, they should fix it, para free.
I am focused on reading, Gremlin girl is 2 feet away, cleaning up after her last client. She walks up, charges the client and calls out the next victim.
"Silvia." I look up, unable to breathe. This can't be. I asked for Stacy, she couldnt possibly be Stacy, she should be Broomhilda, or maybe even Anastasia. But Stacy doesn't fit her, unless it's short for Stacylopogus. I stand up, muster the best smile I can, and have a seat.
My husband was a walking dead man, he knew my fear of the gremlin. He even made a point not to allow her to get wet. I sat and explained the cut I want. I needed a Xanax now. I was sweating, dazed, and could feel my breaths growing deeper and deeper.
She pulled out a book with several cuts, the one I wanted in the middle, she set the book in front of the mirror and began to wash and dry. I was still in utter disbelief that she was touching my hair. I thought she did floors.
From time to time I watched over to the Dufus child, going through Vogue magazines at the front desk, he was the one who picked up the phone. I wondered where there was a pick, the ones at the end of the combs, and how far I would get if I attempted to stab him in the eye.
I looked at her name and it started with an N, but I couldnt pronounce it, or her country I am sure. She was hard to understand, but they called her Nacy. How fucking sweet.
I really wanted to say, my appointment is with Stacy, but didn't have the heart or the balls at that moment. I continued to concentrate on my breathing.
She talked, and talked, and I understood one out of every three word she spoke. I wondered if she was a big fan of Steven Speilberg.
She discussed the turmoil in Haiti, inquiring why they didn't just drive supplies and haul them all over here in a bus. I hoped that her gift from God came through her hands and scissors, she wasn't curing any diseases soon, she wasn't even capable of helping those in Haiti, her ideas were shot to hell as soon as she opened her mouth. Maybe she was a former member of the Bush administration, they get all kinds of kooky ideas.
After combing my hair, she sprayed Miracle spray.
I can laugh just as much as the next person, maybe more. She combed my hair and it was straight. Einstein went on a half hour lecture on how I didn't need a straightener my hair was straight when wet, thanks to her Miracle spray, all for the bargain of $30, she must not know that the Jew in me runs deep. For all of you blessed with straight hair, please know that when wet, most curly hair looks straight, it's wet. There is no Miracle. She commented over and over again about how "Now she believes in Miracles." Laughing hysterically. I dazed off into the mirror, my panic attack in full force.
She finished the cut and then at the bangs she dug the comb in and twisted it from side to side causing a waterfall of dandruff, making me flustered and embarrassed. She looked at me after combing my hair into Little Mary Jane. (Surely because she was on some heavy Mary Jane) and looked at me and said. "OK."
I looked in the mirror, no gel, no blowdry, no mousse, no nothing.
"This is great." I said, wanting to run.
I thanked her and walked over to pay Vogue boy.
"So was that Stacy?"
He looked at me, "I don't know who got your call."
Hint, hint asshole! I spoke to a male, you are the only one fitting the description although at the moment, I am sure that these woman are more capable than you will ever be at any kind of customer assistance. I wanted to, but didn't. I walked away, giving him dirty looks, answering his questions with one word.
I know that the hair cut is great, but I don't think I could deal with her. It's that curse of little foreign people, it was like being caged with my beloved mother in law, having her ask me questions about things she would never understand.
I love the haircut, but really need to find a new place, unless the haircut comes with a shot and medication, they won't be seeing me again. Sorry gremlin chick.