Stylists and the Rich 15 minute Bimbet

I want the brown extensions! Blonde is out, brown is in.

And you thought just running a comb through your hair in the morning would work.

Not in this town.

They come in, always on their cell-phones, always followed by an assistant holding a thousand bags. There is always a dog; a yipping little demon, nipping at my heels, always to the excited glee of the control-freak demanding MORE HIGHLIGHTS sitting in my chair.

Stylists, I say, unite, because if any one of us are caught out here on our own, these fifteen minute bimbets will chain us to our stations, casting one demand after another in our faces.

They all want the Jessica Pimpsome hair extensions, or the J-Ho scissor bob. They want caramel highlights. They want perfect hair. Perfect hair.

And I always deliver. Despite the whining, the sobbing, the begging or just plain demands; I pull through.

The catch is (besides the residual fame and loads of cash) much like a therapist, the stylist's chair is a haven for unloading all the day's heavy burdens. The stories I hear. The gossip that drips from the mouths of these silly little hens is enough to fill any great tell-all expose.

And, as all stylist understand. You do the hair to perfection, and always keep notes.

Yip Yip...