Harried. Or Hair-ied.

My car didn’t start.

It was 11:55 and I was supposed to be at a hair appointment at noon. The salon wasn’t far away, but it was outside walking distance, and definitely outside 5-minute walking distance.

I ran back into the house, rummaged through my son’s desk until I found enough change to take the bus, ran the three blocks to the bus stop, and found the 44 Express waiting for me.

Two stops later, I got off the bus and jogged the final four blocks to my appointment.

I was less than 10 minutes late, which I thought was quite an accomplishment. But then my hairdresser — a rather adorable ex-professional-rugby-player-turned-stylist — started running his hands through my hair discussing options, and my head was all sweaty. Ick.

The moral of this story: stop writing five minutes earlier in future.

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