Four o'clock at the Salon

I once read on the Internet:
the only remedy to damaged hair
is to have it cut off.
So today that's what I did;
walked off to a salon
that smelled of hair products
too strongly for my liking.
"Welcome, Miss,"
the owner said.
She had a nice smile
and I felt consoled.
She called out a name,
(a forgettable name)
probably a John or a June;
I'm not really sure.
Then a man beckoned me,
just as I sat on a chair,
to have my hair shampooed.
It's an awkward place to be in, really,
but, hell, it felt good.
I was lying on my back
with nothing to do
but to stare at the ceiling,
at those fluorescent lamps:
too obnoxious, if you ask me;
like they knew about you
when in fact they didn't.
So I focused on those hands,
his hands -- John's or June's?
that knew what to do,
that weren't lost in my head of hair.
'This is uncomfortable.
I can't look at someone I don't know,'
so I did what I should have done
seconds ago.
I closed my eyes
and the next thing I knew
I was on that chair again,
looking at myself --
someone who would be gone
after a few scissor snips.
"Are you sure you want
to cut your hair short?"
asked the stylist.
I nodded and she cleared
five inches at the first trim.

There you go.
Change.
It's perfectly healthy.