Even though I didn’t need to, I used the conditioner.
It’s a fancy room at the corner of the top floor of a nice hotel sitting on the San Antonio riverwalk overlooking the intersection of N. St. Mary’s and W. Crockett Streets and, I ask you, why would I not use the conditioner?!
It was there and usable. So I used it. After the botanical aloe vera and lemon oil shampoo, I used it.
Karen cuts my hair. And just because every four weeks or so when I tell her I need it cut and I get the black stool from the living room and put it in the bathroom — clearing away the various brown low-pile rugs from the bathroom floor so that hairs don’t get on them — and just because I fill up the spray bottle with hot water so it comes out at least lukewarm on my head and I plug in the clippers using the extension cord — careful to use the one female side that works (the other side doesn’t) — and even though I wrap the black nylon cape around my neck with the velcro that has tiny hairs stuck in it so it takes that special touch to apply the all-but-ineffective hook side to the loop side — just because I prepare everything like this, it doesn’t mean she isn’t likely to walk up, take one look at the top of my head — where there’s an increasingly clear landing pad … or putting green (take your pick of metaphors) — and say, “Nah. We’re good. Let’s try again next month.”