I guess it's my subconscious way of easing the pain.
Or I grumble about the moisture in the air, anticipating all the good hair days I will soon enjoy in the dry heat. But, really. Will I ever truly know Good Hair Love again once I leave Danielle (beloved stylist of ten years, in case you haven't been paying attention) and her magic scissors thousands of miles behind? And what is the point of a great haircut anyway if you can't go to the Canal Street Grille and show it off?