My Road to Happiness

“So what do you think you got on the test?”

I turned to the girl and replied, “I don’t know it was so unfamiliar to me.”

She gave me a side-glance then said, “ Really? It was pretty much a review for me. My high school teacher was pretty thorough.”

“But what about the equations at the bottom. I don’t think I have ever seen any of those symbols.”

The boy behind me chimed in, “You should have covered that in Calc 2.”

 Calc 2? I thought to myself. What in the world is this guy talking about. I haven’t even done Calc 1. I probably shouldn’t worry about it; the test is graded on a curve.

The professor walked into class as stiff and silent as a board. Slowly he paced to his desk and placed his books and belongings. He then grabbed a manila folder from his bag, pulled a stack of test sheets out and started calling out names. One by one students eagerly went to the front of the class to collect their tests and see their scores. I closely watched the faces of my peers trying to get an idea of the scores the students were getting. Soon almost everyone had a paper and then finally my name was called. I was the last person to retrieve their test. As I walked towards the front of the room, I wasn’t that nervous. I hadn’t seen anyone who looked too disappointed at their score so I was already assuming that the instructor had made a pretty sweet curve. With his hands he rolled up my test sheet, extended his arm and gave me a blank uninterested stare. I grasped the paper and started to unfold it unveiling a big red “F”. I was dumbstruck. This letter was completely unknown to me in the education system. The lowest grade I had ever received was a “B”. It didn’t make sense. Some how my hours of studying did not add up. I was stuck in a place between fantasy and reality. No matter how long I stared at the letter, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cry or laugh. There had to be a mistake. Chemistry was my major. I couldn’t fail a chemistry course! After class, I talked to my teacher who merely glanced at my test handed it back and said. “There are no mistakes. You’ll just have to be better prepared.” Quietly, I took the paper, placed it in my binder, and left the room.

That night I went home and broke the new to my parents. “I guess you’ll just have to learn how to work harder.” My mother unsympathetically suggested, “ You need to start learning to prioritize and cut out those extra activities.” I felt my jaw go tight as I restrained my comments of frustration. I had prioritized. I hadn’t seen my friends in weeks, and I had taken work of to study.

“Why are you doing a major that’s so hard?” My dad remarked. “It’s ok to admit that something is too hard for you. It’s probably not your…”

“I can handle it!” In that statement, every emotion festering inside me released. “I’ll do what it takes to get to the level I need to be at! I’ll just have too…”

 “Roni, why don’t you major in art? I would really love to see you pursue art.”

I couldn’t believe it. Here I was in the middle of a breakdown, and my mother had the nerve to make such a casual suggestion. I turned my head, took a deep breath and said, “ I can’t believe you would actually think I would even consider such a frivolous major.”

The rest of the night I kept replaying the conversation with my parents in my head over and over again. What would prompt my mother to have such and idea? I hadn’t even drawn since Junior High. I was always artistically inclined when I was little, but I soon learned that being an artist wasn’t a talent that would get me anywhere in life, so I abandoned it. Who would really want to play the part of the poor and starving artist? 

At school, the following day, I received an “F” on my physics test. This was still a huge disappointment, but not as much as a shock the first time around. I sat staring at that scarlet letter. This just wasn’t adding up and I needed a solution. I gathered my things into my backpack and headed for the counselor’s office.

When I arrived I waited for about 20 minutes before I was let in to a counselor. When I got into the office sunk into the seat and said, “What is going on? It’s only been three weeks of school and I’m already flunking out of college!” From there I just kept talking and talking.  It was the only thing to do. I relayed all the events to my counselor, told him my thoughts, feelings, and how it was suppose to be

With not even a word, my counselor asked for my student ID number, a then with a few taps and a click and there was my schedule. She started looking at in intently, bit her lip, and let out a puzzled “huh.” A few more seconds passed and then still staring at the computer said, “Have you taken AP Chemistry?”

“No.” I answered.

“Calculus 1 or 2?”

“No.”

“AP Physics?”

“No.”

“Well I think I figured out your problem Miss Sloan. You haven’t taken any prerequisites. How in the world did you get into those classes?”

“I met with a counselor a week before school started and she told me this was the 4 year track and that I’d be fine.”

She hesitated for a second and then replied, “Well, I hate to break it to you but you don’t want a whole bunch of  “F’s” on your transcript. Do you have a job?”

“I do.”

“Then I’d advise you to get out of this semester and work. There is know way you’ll make it through these classes and it is too late to transfer into any other classes.”

I began to cry. I felt so desperate. “But I’ll lose my scholarship?”

“I’m sorry, but if you fail you’ll lose it anyway. At least that way they won’t be on your transcripts. Don’t do it yet if you don’t want. Do you live at home?”

I nodded.

“Talk to your parents and ask them. Your just not qualified for these classes.”

For a moment I stared blankly at the desk as I soaked in the situation. I picked up my bags, thanked the counselor for her time, and hauled myself out of the office. Step by step I finally made my way out of the building thinking and hearing everything and nothing. I went outside and fell on the steps and sobbed.

            “Now nothing can be that bad.” Said a voice.

This feminine stranger obviously didn’t know my life. With the backside of my hand I rubbed my eyes dry and said, “ It is. It’s my first year of college and I’m already a college drop out!”  The woman sat down along side of me and asked for details. With nowhere to go or be, I found myself telling this perfect stranger. After she heard my story she gave me a side hug, squeeze my arm with her hand, and with a hopeful smile said. “I think I can help you. Come with me to my office.”

Help? Was it really possible? Could this middle-aged woman with sandy long hair save my college career? I didn’t know, and at that moment I didn’t know what to believe or hope for, but I followed.  We walked to the far northwest side of campus and entered a 4-story building. It was a little dirty inside, with obnoxious teal walls with an occasional spot of graffiti. I followed her into the office; she sat at the computer, and asked me a few questions about my schedule. Before I knew it, she pulled a piece a paper from the printer and handed it to me. “ If you can just meet with these teachers, they’ll give you signatures for late entrance into their class and at least you’ll have 12 credits to get you through the semester. The next semester you can get back on track. It might set you back a little, but at least you won’t loose your scholarship.”

That semester I was enrolled in Art History 101, and 102, Drawing 1 and English 102, (the only class I didn’t have to withdraw from off my original schedule.) It was a great semester and I found myself rediscovering my buried talent. My drawing instructor praised me in my work and encouraged me to pursue. I told him I would take one art class the following semester for fun, but that I was going to do chemistry. The following semester, I walked into my first chemistry class and the instructor spent the whole lecture expressing his passion for chemistry and how he couldn’t think of a better life, than being able to do what he loved, chemistry everyday. That speech changed me. It ignited a fire within me, but not for chemistry. It was art. I loved art. It was my passion and I didn’t want to live a day without it. After class, I went to the office of the Herberger College of Fine Arts and enrolled in the pre-art courses.

Now when I think back to this event, there isn’t a question or doubt in my mind, that god helped play a role in helping me find my passion and calling in life. I will always be grateful to the influence of divine intervention. However after revaluating my story, I realize there is probably a more universal belief that can be extracted from this story. It is my belief in the importance of living life by doing what I love. Because of that day, I get to pursue my passions and my dreams every moment of my life, and it has brought me irreplaceable and insurmountable happiness and satisfaction that I didn’t know was possible. Before I found painting, I wasn’t just failing tests, I was failing at life.

I know the last sentence gets a little cheesy. 

The Missing Piece

OK so this is a way old story that happened 2 years- almost 3 now- ago but I'm just trying get back into the blogging thing -fyi my writing is a little week in this one but its still makes an alright story!

My fellow friends, family, and loved ones,

      I write to again with more bitter feelings on the YSA activities. As some of you might know, I have parted with my beloved appendix. This has brought on not only a physical but an emotional pain. Before I continue about my festering bitterness on YSAs I shall tell you my tale. It began on a calm Monday afternoon when I began to feel a subtle but sharp pain in my stomach. I grasped my stomach and braced onto the piano (I was in 7th hour choir) and endured. As the last bell of the day rang, I grabbed my bags and made the trek to my faithful van. Fortunately, as I stepped into my trusty vehicle, I stroked the steering wheel and a warmth ran through my fingers and I was comforted, thus giving me the strength to drive home in safety. As I pulled up into my driveway, unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out of the nurturing vehicle, I hobbled up my doorstep and walked into my house. I decided to discard all thoughts concerning myself, and thought that even though I wasn't feeling so well perhaps I could make someone elses day a little brighter. I instantly thought of my mother and lovingly began to clean the house. I grabbed the vaccum and got to work. I worked briskfully and happily as I thought of the smile that would be upon my mother's beautiful face when she returned from a hard day's work when all of a sudden I grew very dizzy. I continued to press on, but no matter how hard I tried to finish the good deed that I had begun, I was forced to stop when I became very cold and my body began to shiver. I fell upon the bed and hugged my legs close to my chest. In that instant my stomach filled with a terrible pain. It felt as though I was starving to death, and yet when I tried to eat, the pain only became worse. I layed upon the bed in my silent pain waiting , ever waiting, for my suffering to pass.
      My mother walked into the house after a hard days work. She came into her bedroom and saw me in my agonizing state. Half concerned, she exchanged some sympathetic remark and sat down at the computer. The afternoon dragged on, and so did my pain. I laid in silence and held back my tears. My mother began to realize the reality of my pain and called the doctor. He offerered much advice and it brought me no help. After that my mother made numerous calls to the same doctor, in which every call was preceded by some false diagnosis of my condition. I was given medication after medication which was only followed by some unpleasant details that I wish not to share. Finally in hoplessness, I mustered up the remains of my strengths and got ready for bed.
 

-Intermission- Here ends the dramatic portion of my tale and the rest will 
 be a little more light hearted. So if your not much of a drahma fan I'll ask 
 you to continue. If you like drahma then I beg your pardon and beg you to 
 read on.
 

PART II
 The next day I woke up, flung open my window and exchanged a smile with the rising sun. I was feeling very well and rushed around the house getting ready for the new day. To my luck I finished early which provided me with some time to finish most of my homework that I was unable to do the preceding day. When I reached school, I finished the rest because it was club tutoring. My day continued at a jolly pace, and I frolicked from class to class singing and whistling. As I arrived at my uplifting Seminary class I was greeted by my homecoming date, we'll call him Todd. So Todd could tell I was not feeling well and so he inquired. I responded that my stomach was bothering me. Instead of a loving embrace,he said" does this hurt?" and I recieved a hard jab in my right side and I collapsed on a near by desk. I began breathing heavily and with much concern he yelled"whimp" as he left the room. From then on the pain rested heavily in my side. I made it through the rest of the day and by the time I had made it home, my pain had eased. When my mom got home I was informed that a doctor's appointment had been made. We debated whether to take it or not and my mom made it quite clear that she didnt think it was necessary. She had almost convinced me but I finally decided that I wanted to figure out the cause of my previous pain even if it had subsided. We went to the doctors and after he pushed at my side and ran a few tests he left the room. After waiting only a few minutes, he walked in and said, "They are holding a bed for you at the hospital. Be there in 10 min. I suspect you have appendicides. It will probably come out tonight depending on the catscans."- Well fellow readers I understand you are on the edge of your seats but I must come to a hault until tomorrow for I fear that my writing is slacking because Ive been writing too long. By the way Im bitter because the only place I can lay down is on the couch in my living room and the YSAs are having pancake night in there so I have had to sit up for the past 2 hours and it hurts. I love you all and I hope you have a good night! Until Part III! Your beloved invalid, Ronilyn Sloan

PART III

"The Missing Piece" Continued
 Dr. Griner then replied " Be at the hospital in 10 minutes or you could lose the chance of getting in and then you would have to wait a day or two for a  vacancy and that could be too late." After hearing the news my mother just smiled and said, "Alright thanks again." I, thinking we we're in a hurry cause the hospital was more than 10 minutes away, began to briskfully walk to our car. Apparently we were'nt because by the time I reached the car my mom was inside chatting with the nurses. Finally she emerged and said, 
 "Roni, just be honest if you dont feel anything. This isnt a time to make up stories." I was in shock. My mom thought I was making up my ailment. I assured her that I wasnt just schemeing a way to go to a hospital, and that although most people Im sure would do anything to go, I was not one of those people. My sarcasm only made her think that I was putting on a facade. She remarked, " Lets stop and visit Noni." Ok I love my grandmother but for some reason this activity was sounding like the best idea. As we drove mental pictures raced through my head of my appendix bursting and me falling to the ground in agony as my mother and Noni casually talked about there days. We went in and sat down and went back out to the car 20 minutes later. As we hopped in the car I said, "Well its a good thing you are so concerned about my condition or else we might never get to the hospital." I was immediately threatened that my appendix better be hurting when we get to the hospital. Oh the tenderness of motherly love. She went to our house so I could get my pillow and pajamas and as I walked in the house my mother drove off. 10 minutes later she came back and honked. I got in and she said " I decided to go get my school books so I wouldn't be wasting my evening." These comments made me a little bitter. We arrived at the hospital in a grand total of 60 min rather than 10. I checked in and they fortunately still had a bed for me. They brought out a wheel chair and told me to sit in it. Apparently this is a hospital custom because I could walk perfectly and so could the lady who was sitting in her wheel chair next to me. As I sat there I saw an attractive and solid man approaching me. As he got closer he asked are you Miss Peters? As I opened my mouth to accept - I was ready to be whoever this guy wanted to be even if it did require me to change my last name- the lady next to me said, "no thats me, and its Ms. Peters. I want you to know Ive been here for 30 min." So the hot man wheeled off the hag. I sat there mourning over the chance that I lost to meet my husband, when a cute petite nurse, weighing no more than 80lbs. and standing a little less than 5 ft. walked in. "Are you Miss Sloan?" I acknowledged this and she began to wheel me to the elevator. I felt so stupid. Here I can walk perfectly fine and this stick girl who is about to snap is pushing my gigantic carcuss around. As we went into the elevator, I imagined her shaking and struggling as she pushed me, and the mental image caused me to start laughing a loud. This random action I think made her a little uncomfortable and probably made her think that I was phsycotic. She wheeled me into my room and presented me with the fashionalbe hospital apparell I would be wearing. I observed that these garments were a little revealing so in order to keep to my modest standards, I put on my pajamas and then put the garment over them. My two nurses came in and introduced themselves and over conversation that began about my condition ended 20 min. later about the scandall about Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. Sadly it came to a close because the nurses realized that they had to take care of their other patients. So I layed in bed and got bored so I started exploring my quarters. I looked at a variety of needles and operating tools until I came upon the blood preassure thing and I was able to keep my self entertained as I attempted to get the band to 
squeeze my arm as tight as it could. Soon the two different nurses entered and were a little alarmed that I was playing with this piece of equipment and they took it from me. It was a sad parting. However I got over it quickly when I was informed that it was time to put my IV in. I was scared too death cause Ive never had one before and they looked painful. Each of the nurses introduced themselves and one of then was a student. He asked me if he could put my IV in or if I would prefer the other nurse to do it. My reply, "Hey I dont care go for it." Him- "Really? Are you sure? Are you sure youd rather have a trained nurse to do it?" - Me -"Uh im not anymore. Its sounds like your not sure of what your doing. Have you done it before?" him (chuckling)"yeah I have, its not that hard."me"Sure then if you need the experience. Here prepare my limb." at this comment I lifted up my hand and presented it to him. He laughed and began to set up for the procedure.We continued to talk and I could tell that a new friendship was building. As I 
 looked away to talk to my mother me new "friend" maliciously seized my hand forcefully stabbing my hand with his needle. Soon the comment "Oops. I missed" shortly followed. I was biting my lip determined to endure the pain. I bit tighter and tighter, and clenched my fists , trying to remain relaxed and keep in the tears as this main pumped the need in and out of my hands several times. Finally he gave up and said, "Im sorry, I guess I kinda messed up and stabbed through your vein a few times. My hand started  bleeding profusely and the man grabbed a tissue and applied pressure to my hand and it hurt like crazy. He also tied a elastic band around my arm to cut of circulation and continued to firmly hold the tissue against my hand. I looked away for a few seconds and when I turned back to look at my hand, the blood that had escaped my vein was building up under the skin and it soon looked as if there was a golfball under my skin. He bandaged me up, made some joke about inserting a golf ball into my hand and then asked me to look at him and tell him if I was ok. I couldnt. And when I turned to look at him I couldnt say anything. He kept repeating his question and I finally whimpered a yes, Im fine and the tears began to flow. He felt awful and just left. I felt so guilty when he left cause I didnt want him to feel bad. I sat there and the other nurse came in and gasped. She ran to my arm and snapped the elastic off. I hadnt noticed but my arm had turned a deep purple. "What did he do to you? Im sry, we'll get you fixed up." So my IV 
 was inserted. After getting set up it was time for catscans.

PART IV

So i was getting prepared for my catscans. First they brought me in 32 oz. of boron. yes boron is a drink and its disguting.( It might have been another element that started with a b- i think it was boron though) Anyway its a white milky substance that is grainy with a similar taste to Tang. It was disgusting. However i drank it very quickly so i wouldn't have to savor this awful drink. When i finished i was taken for catscans where i was injected with iodine. When they finished they took me back to my bed and i fell asleep. As i slept i had nightmare that i was brought two more bottles of boron. i soon realized i wasnt sleeping and it wasnt a nightmare. The nurse brought in 32 oz. more and smiled saying, "your catscans didnt workout. we're going to have to do it again." This was the real torture. I couldn't believe it. I just chugged all this nasty liquid and they were 

expecting me to drink more. I wanted to cry. I was so full so i had no other choice then to drink the liquid slow. I was taken from my bed again ,now holding 64 oz. of thick grainy milky liquid in my stomach, and wheeled to get a second catscan where i was injected again with more iodine. I finally was returned to my room. The next time i awoke i was in the operating room gettin informed that it was 2 o'clock in the morning and that they were going to begin operating. The idea of getting cut open never sounded more appealing. Seriously. I was so full from that awful stuff that i would have done almost anything to get it out. I quickly made this comment to the surgeon that i would be grateful if he'd pump my stomach while he was in the process of cutting up my insides. He laughed. I couldn't believe it. I dont think he realized how much pain my stomach was in cause it was so full. I think I was just tired but i was so mad at whoever the idiot was that messed up on my first cat scan. So i layed there enraged as the surgeon told me everything he was going to do. He started getting really graphic and if he would have listened to me at all when i told him about the boron incident he would have known that this wasn't the time to make me feel more sick. Ill let u fill in the next part of this story. Anyway as he continued to talk about ripping my appendix from my body and shoving it in this bottle i couldnt help but feel a little violated. He talked about it so casually. To think that this man was going to put his grubby little hands into my stomach move everything around made me a little uneasy. Who does he think is? At this point in the story, had it taken its natural course, i might have protested to this procedure but we'll never know cause the sneaky bald headed anesthesia man shoved a needle in my IV and I was inhumanely forced  to fall into an involutary sleep. I was a little appauled that he gave me no warning. Rude. As i layed motionless, and unconcious, and not remembering a thing, im sure i can imagine how it must of felt, as my appendix wrapped tightly around my intestine, holding on for dear life as this foreign invader with his grubby little hands extracted it piece by piece. As i awoke from the anesthesia it felt like i was awaking from a nightmare. I had no idea where i was and i had this mask forced against my face as i struggled to breathe. I began to thrash and tried to break free which i finally manged. I threw my fist randomly into the air and felt it make contact with the face of some stranger, i heard a few gasps and i began to sit up, trying to leave the bed. In my efforts to escape, I was forcefully pushed back onto the bed, and i was held down as my legs and arms were strapped down to the bed. It was the worst feeling in the world. i felt like i was being attacked and i couldnt get away so I started to cry and the mask was pushed back onto my face. Finally a nurse began to talk to me and i finally remembered where i was. I fell back asleep and didnt awake til morning. that morning i was greeted by my surgeon and the nurse that i had apparently slugged in the face. There was a light bruise and i felt awful. I apologized for the rest of my stay. I didnt mind the hospital except for the pesky little red head lady. she was so annoying. She was obsessed with taking my blood. And she wouldnt even let me know when she was doing it. She'd just sneak up behind me and jab the needle into my arm. This was going a little too far so i decided to catch her in the act the next time. One hour later, i pretended to be asleep and when she came by I grabbed my arm and so she couldnt stab me again. We then had a little chat about her taking my blood without asking and how i felt a little violated. From that moment on we were friends and she always asked. However she soon was switched with some other lady who i had to chat with. she was worse though cause she did it every 45 min at night time when i was trying to sleep. Finally i beeped my doctor and he told her that she could lay off. So thats the end of my story. Hope you enjoyed it. However, since this experiance, as i look at the scars i cant 
 help but feel in my heart that a part of me is missing. I shall never be the same. - Roni

My Only Fear

In my life, I only have one great fear, Weevils.  They are honestly the only things that I will just burst into tears on sight. In the past weeks, there have been several sitings in the Sloan home, all observed by me. I quickly hollered in every situation and warned the people of the Sloan residence, but my cries were not to be heard. However, this morning, May 26th, 2008, I was not ignored as I picked up boxes revealing  clusters of beetles and worms. I dropped the box, burst into tears, and ran to fetch my mother ( the real horror is that they were very close to my secret Oreo stash- no worries- each cookie was closely inspected and my stash went back into hiding.) So my mother, blind as a bat, came to investigate, and thought they were just rice. Her days of weevil hunting were over.  In the mean time, Riki conveniently decided that now would be a great time to abandon us during this traumatic experience and go running. I sat shuddering in the corner, on the floor of the living room in hysterics. My mother soon walked in, told me to deal with it, and that she was living to go down to Alma School Rd. I cried, begged, even bargained, but I was forcefully told to fix the problem. Being the wonderful, loving, and unfortunately an extremely obedient daughter, i marched into the kitchen to look fear straight in the face. There I was, tears streaming down my face, and with courage in my heart, I boldly took each bin, and dumped it in the trash. For over and hour I hunted them down. Do I still fear weevils? Yes.

Death To Chris Anthony’s!

I knew it was too good to be true, the day I heard, “three cuts for $60.” I was sitting in the food court of Superstition Springs Mall, enjoying the juicy, tender, white chicken nuggets from Chick filet, when from behind me came a pasty, fleshed body with matted black hair that sunk into the chair next to me. I tried to ignore that my personal space had been seriously violated, and continued to try and savor the rest of my meal. As I bit into the next piece of perfection, the freaky grease man, sharply turned his head and with his finger, slid a brochure in my direction while dramatically saying , “What do you think of this!? I look up, disturbed, with half a piece of chicken coming out of my mouth and said, “ I don’t know what ‘this’ is- but I do know that you just ruined the perfect bite.” The man started telling me about “Chris Anthony’s” and how it was the most prestigious place to get your hair cut in Arizona. I then asked, “If it is so prestigious how have I not heard of it.”
“Well probably because it’s located only in Chandler and Scottsdale, but I’ll prove it to you.”- So he starts pulling different certificates, and pointing out stylists in a magazine, and I was convinced. “We are trying to get some new clients, so you get three cuts and a dye job for one price.”
“What is this Price?” I asked.
“$60.”
“Hmmm…” I thought to myself. “Three cuts for $60, I get one for $70 usually. I’m growing my hair out so I really only need a trim. Can someone really mess up on just a trim—how could they, this would be a money saver- Why not.”—I then announced “Sure, I’ll try it.”
For some odd reason, even after I consented to accept the offer, he kept trying to convince me, which just got really annoying cause I could see that steam was no longer coming from my chicken nuggets, not to mention this waste of time was wasting my break. Finally I slightly raised my voice and said, “please, I have already said yes, I need to go.”
I signed my name to the document. Little did I know that I was also signing away a piece of my pride, vanity, and identity.
So I called and scheduled my appointment for October 11, 2006 at 12:00pm. I arrived late, so unfortunately I would have to miss out on getting a style, but I figured that the cut is most important. *Quick note my hair was half dry cause I had just gotten out of the shower. As I sat down, ‘Bob’ came and started playing with my hair and said, “we have got to do something with these ends. I wished I could of defended the state of my hair, but it was true, I had not been able to afford a cut for over 12 weeks. I consented that something needed to be done, but I said “please, keep the original cut, I just need a trim.” Nic told me that for the health of my hair we should take at least an inch of which, was understandable. Obviously “Bob” went to some retarded elementary school, cause one inch was more the size of two or three inches. He then blew dry my hair, and then added, your hair is thick!- I glowed with pride, but as I was absorbed in thought of my full head of hair, Nic wasted no time in grabbing his razor and started thinning out my hair!
“What are you doing!?!?!” I cried.
“I’m thinning your hair- its really low maintenance so you can just let it dry, it won’t take anytime.-If I stop it’ll be lopsided.”
----OR LOOK ANYGOOD! - as I found out the next morning, as I tried to straighten the remaining hair I had left. I’m assuming that he thought I was a low maintenance hair kind of gal cause my hair was half wet—did he even care to ask!-I love doing my hair believe it or not. I have been doing what I can to cope with this disaster. I have even tried to put a spiritual twist, by thinking of what a humbling experience this is, or relating myself to the scriptures of Isaiah where the hair falls off the heads of the women because they were so vain. Maybe it applies to me I don’t know. I don’t think Isaiah meant for this to apply to a hair cut but it did. There were pieces about 9 inches long on the ground!-Lessons to be learned- A cheap haircut is never worth it. Anything that is a sales pitch from a brochure is evil, and never, ever go to Chris Anthony’s!!!!