I am sitting in the waiting room at the hairdresser, flipping through a magazine that highlights what celebrity stylists are doing with hair that is blonder, smoother, tamer and thinner than my own. I'm tired -but I've worked all day - so that's normal. My appointment was a half hour ago, so I think that my feeling totally annoyed is probably justified. It's not until I see two heads of the same extension-filled yellow hair on a pair of identical faces staring at me from the same shiny magazine page that I realize - something could be amiss with my blood sugar.

I take out my test kit. The older woman sitting next to me shuffles in her seat as I load my meter with a strip and get a lancet ready. She's staring now, having lost interest in her own celebrity hairstyle magazine. I'm not in any mood to explain myself, my diabetes, or my testing device, so I turn slightly, angling my body out of site as I lance my index finger and squeeze a fat blood droplet from it.

Older lady watches intently, As I apply the drop. 5-4-3-2-1 - "36 mg/dl."

"Now that can't be right," I think, "I CAN'T be that low." I get up and walk to the back of the shop where the restroom is located. I wash my hands and return to my seat. I don't think about this ritual and how little sense it makes. But washing my hands seems the best thing to in order to have my next test come out at a level that I like a little better.

Older lady has moved to a seat across the shop. There's no angling away as I test again. I'm sure I let out a "Hmmmph," as I retest. 5-4-3-2-1 - Damn. "31 mg/dl" This is not good. I take my emergency reaction treatment, a CapriSun juice bag (you know it's a bag, not a box), out of my pack and fumble with the impractically small straw. Just then, my hairdresser comes to the desk and calls my name.

"Um, OK,Um, just a minute," I say, gathering my kit, my bag, and my not yet started juice.

In the chair, the hairdresser asks what I'd like to have done. But I've got my juice bag out and I'm busy trying to get the pointy tip of that frustrating mini-straw through the juice bag foil. And I'm thinking "What do I want to have done? I want to have my blood sugar normalize on its own, I want to not have to look like a seven year old child fumbling with this damned straw. I want to be 102." But I say "Just a trim, please."

I have finally managed to get the straw into the bag and sucked down the fruit punch. Hairdresser ushers me to the sink, telling me I look pale and asking if I'm feeling OK. "Sure." I respond "I'm OK. My blood sugars a little funny, that's all." She washes my hair, rinses it, puts some treatment in and then walks away. I stare up a the drop ceiling - at the webby knit of lines on the panels, trying my best to not fall asleep.

And I wonder "When is she coming back?" I also lean my head from the sink and rummage at the bottom of my bag, finding a ½ roll of Mentos that have been there for God knows how long. I eat a few before she returns and rinses my hair.

(To Be Continued)