Big Day

Daniel theorizes that I'm a six on the enneagram, and so my weakness is fear and my strength is courage.

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When I got home I called the hair salon where I've gone a handful of times this year.  An Italian couple who lived in London for many years owns the salon.  They're both friendly, fluent in English, professional, kind.  Roberta cut my hair the first time I went, and I loved that it was short and easy and grew in well.  When I returned in the winter, her husband Alessio cut my hair.  He said it was best to do it all one length, and he gave me what he said was one of his favorite haircuts, a bob.  It was neat and perfectly dried and styled.  But it had no shape after two days and it grew in quite blah and I had many bad hair days.  It wasn't Alessio's fault that I wanted to do a default ponytail every day; my hair just needs more lift or life or layers or something so it doesn't just hand down.  The next time I went I was scheduled with Alessio again.  He's lovely, and we talked and talked.  When I requested layers, he told me that that wouldn't work because then my hair would stick up everywhere, poof!

Many bad hair days.  Why's your hair so straight?  Daniel asked.  It's a good haircut, just not for me.

I schedule my appointment for the last week of June.  But I know that I need to change it to have Roberta cut it.  I call to cancel.  Roberta picks up and says, "Sure.  I'll schedule for the next day."

"Super," I say.

"I'll put you with Alessio."

Courage must prevail.  "Roberta, could you actually put me with you?"  I ask.  I tell her, "Alessio is great, and he gives a good haircut, but the cut you gave me in the fall worked well for me, and so I'd love it if you could do it."

I'm a forty-six year old woman afraid of hurting the hair stylist's feelings.  It's true.  It's embarrassing to be so concerned, so non-assertive, but there it is.

Roberta is lovely.  She tells me, "Oh, sure.  No problem.  Don't worry about it.  Some people prefer Alessio, and some prefer me.  It's no big deal.  Really.  Don't think about it.  It's great.  See you soon."

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As I began to purge and clean a month ago, I could feel residual frustration from last August (it would be good and healthier to let things go, I know, and I work on this again and again, but it can be hard for me) from all the cleaning and purging of the belongings of the previous tenants.  At the time I communicated the situation and my frustration with the director; a friend told me that I should request that SYA hire someone to clean.  I thought, Well, I've done all the work now, so I'll ask them next spring when we're supposed to hire someone ourselves.

When I saw the director late May I felt awkward: I had something to ask him and I wasn't sure how to do it.  It's hard to ask for things.  After the phone call with the hair salon, I headed over to school to print up World Cup tickets.  I saw the director and asked him for a few minutes as he headed out.   I said something like, "I have a question for you, and it's hard for me to ask, but I'll regret it if I don't, and even if you say no, I'll feel better that I asked."  He waited, and then I requested SYA's covering the cost of the final cleaning since I had to do the final cleaning from the last tenants last summer.

He said, "Sure."

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This asking for things is hard for me no matter where I am -- Waltham, Braintree, Viterbo.  My heart beats hard in my chest, and I try to speak clearly, honestly.  I want to offend no one, want never to be presumptuous, want to feel grateful for what I have and how things are rather than asking for more.  And I know that speaking up is important, too, even when -- or especially when? -- it's hard. But my gracious it's work for me.  I bragged to at least three people (Daniel, Mary, my oldest friend) about my double-assertion day that Friday.