Where everybody knows your name

On Tuesday evening, I got to return to the place where everybody knows my name—the salon where I used to work!

I spent four years as a receptionist at the salon. 

While I was there, I went from an awkward 19-year-old girl with a giant poof on my head to a slightly less awkward 23-year-old woman with a braid. 

My poof was HUGE.

So sophisticated.

I also became a brunette briefly. 

Poor Jill spent hours trying to darken my highlighted locks, and I went and asked her to change me back to blonde four weeks later.

Which is exactly the amount of time she predicted I would last.

Growing up, I had always hoped for a sister.

When my mom was pregnant was my little brother, I may have even gone around telling people that she was expecting twin girls as I firmly believed that if I just told people this sort of thing, it would actually happen.

Talk about a weird and creepy child.

Anyway!

Working at the salon, I finally gained the sister I always wished for. A dozen times over. 

These women listened to me moan about school problems, coached me through innumerable boy dilemmas, kept my eyebrows from joining forces, colored and cut my hair, were there to discuss celebrity gossip with me as we leafed through People magazine, made me laugh, and truly became a second family to me.

Whenever I return to the salon, it feels as though I never left.

I even jump a little each time the phone rings and am always tempted to go answer it.

And while I am there, I always feel grateful to have made so many great memories and wonderful friends. 

I'll always have a huge place in my heart for the salon—good thing my brown roots and bushy eyebrows will keep me from ever staying away too long!