This is a journey we have all been on. Ever since I cut my own bangs when I was in seventh grade, and ended up looking like Alfred E. Neuman, I have been searching for the perfect hairstylist.

Hair-raising tales: we all have them! One year as summer approached in the late 1950s, my mother trooped my sister and me off to the neighborhood salon. We ended up with matching “pixie cuts” that left us with only wisps of hair that definitely did not result in the intended cute hairdos. Maybe there was a BOGO offer that mom couldn’t resist. Luckily, our hair grew out by the time school started in the fall, although it took awhile for the allover cowlicks to be tamed.

I had a mane of glorious brunette locks that tended to frizz in the Missouri humidity. As a teen I begged my mother to let me iron my hair, as was all the rage in the 1960s. She refused, so I spent my high school years looking more like Roseanne Roseannadanna than Cher.

Once I was finally in charge of my own coiffures, I went from a Farah Fawcett look that never quite worked to another pixie cut when I was pregnant. Let me just say I was the smitten image of a pinhead perched atop a basketball.

Don’t get me started on my perm phase. My husband and I both got big, frizzy perms regularly during the 1970s and 1980s. Once again, what was I thinking? After the follicles on the crown of my head started breaking, resulting in a porcupine tuft, I finally let my hair and perm grow out.

Years followed with a few great looks thrown in, and tales of hairstylists who did not please. One guy trimmed my flowing locks, and plunked me down under the dryer for an hour rather than spend the considerable time needed to give me a blow-dry.

I was most put out when another stylist shampooed my hair, and then proceeded to service the customer who had the appointment before mine. She rushed in over an hour late, all smiles; and I sat for an hour with cold, wet hair while she was cut and coiffed. After she breezily departed, I politely pointed out that I was not a happy camper. All I got was a blank look. I never went back.

Then there was Maria, who had some issues with putting her customers first. She tended to change my appointments at the last minute, typically while I was already on my way. Once, I had just parked in front of the salon. She called saying she had business to attend to, and would be an hour late. Huh? I sat in my car fuming for the next hour. Of course being Ms. Polite, I didn’t want to offend her as she set to work on my crowning glory.

I save this story for last. You decide if I had a right to be peeved. Periodically for the last 20 years I have gone to Sally to have my hair done. She is an expert stylist; and always cut, colored and styled my hair well. So why wasn’t I a loyal customer? Her shop is in her home. It is 100 miles away from my house, she has seven hound dogs, 13 kids, and her home is in sore need of a visit from Merry Maids. Ok, I am exaggerating just a teeny tiny bit.

When my bangs would become totally out of control, I tended to pay Sally a visit for a revamp. (I’m very particular about my bangs.) It seemed to be no big deal. We would chitchat and I would always tip her well.

Awhile back I rang her up to make an appointment. “Oh,” she said, “I’m on vacation, but will text you some times that work for me.” No problem, I thought. But I was befuddled that I never heard back from her. After a few weeks, and still sorely needing a bangs refresh, I called her again. Sally claimed she had forgotten about my previous call, and was leaving on another vacay. Once again she said she would get back to me. You guessed it …nothing! Okay, so I can take a hint when I get ghosted (twice!). Only regulars were welcome, and alas I was not one of them. Did I have a right to be miffed?

Meanwhile I continue my lifetime search for the perfect hairstylist. Consider yourself lucky if you have had success with the same person for years: they have not moved, ghosted you or driven you to drink; and they consistently do good hair.