(Continued)

Now, about this time, I ought to tell my friendly hairdresser that I really need to retest. That it'll only take a minute. That I'm a bit dizzy. But I don't. And I have this irrational and overwhelming urge to laugh as I picture myself pulling a Steel Magnolias'-style Shelby freak out in my own, hometown version of Truvy's Salon. Still, I don't say anything, as I am wrapped in a smock and my hair falls in small, trim-length strands all around. Everything is a bit turned around. The older lady from earlier is STARING at me again. I wonder what she's thinking.

I wonder if she thinks whatever I've got is catchy. I'm sure I look a fright. I try to focus on staying upright as the cut is finished and my hair is styled. When it's done, I sit in the chair too long, trying to gather my things, throwing away the spent juice bag and mentos wrapper. I test gain, 5-4-3-2-1... "41 mg/dl." Oof. Not so hot. (READ MORE)

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. (READ MORE)