I’ve been going to Catalina to have my hair done for two years now. One, because she is a fabulous hair stylist and two, because her thick Columbian accent puts me to sleep. When I was wearing my hair short, I would see her once a month, but now my visits have been scaled back to every eight weeks.
We have this game that we play everytime I go in there, as we have since I joined her following. She will pretend like she has no idea that she’s ever met me before, and I’ll pretend that I hate Columbians.
The conversation, inevitably, will flow like this:
Her: Oh, mia, who cut chore hair las? Itso baaaad.
Me: I’m sorry; I have trouble understanding you with that horrid accent. Can you please speak english? You ARE in America, you know.
Eventually, I realize that I’m the only one playing the game, so I’ll cut back. But this last time, she paid me the ultimate compliment:
Me: Oh, you people all sound the same to me. You sure you don’t have a Pancho in your family?
Her: Mia, chou are just lite that Karen Walker on Weel and Grasse but notso drunk.
I can now die a happy woman.
