Hours devoted to beautification

It's never my favorite, but every three months I hie myself and my huge head of hair off to a salon for pruning and maintenance. I'm not trying to maintain a Barbie beauty standard, but rather avoiding the crazy cat lady look. It takes a while to adjust the color, and then cut it. I do get some color added, since otherwise it would be a very boring brown hue. Highlights... yeah, that's what I get. So I have to sit for about two hours, and though I always bring some form of literature to read, I usually wind up reading the dumb ass magazines they have stacked up on their tables. It's akin to not being able to not look at the scene of an accident, having to look at these rags. Who are they for? Do people, by dint of walking into a hair salon, lose grip on their intelligence and have to go for People Magazine? Well, one day I shall rise up and stop getting someone else to deal with my hair, and I'll never even glance at another one of those wastes of trees.
A miracle occurred while I was in the hair joint: The sun came out, and though pretty cold, it was perfect walking and running weather. As I ran up the hill after a workout, I passed a house which has long fascinated me; it has the ugliest cement fountain in its side yard, complete with myriad pissing cherubs. There was a rustle in the hedgerow, and it warn't no spring clean for the May Queen, it was a big old dark pitbull in a striped sweater! Right at throat level! I didn't scream or make any sudden accelerations, and it just sort of glanced at me as I passed by. It inspired me to get home very quickly.