[upon arrival to my hair appointment]

“OH MY GAWD!  YOU’RE FAT!   HOW FAR ALONG ARE YOU?” asks my nosey and inappropriate stylist, in all caps, because that’s the only volume she speaks. 

“Five months,” I say, instead of beating her over the head with my blackberry-weighted handbag.

“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THAT FAT AT FIVE MONTHS.”

“I’m pregnant with twins, remember?”

“OH, YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT!  WELL, WADDLE OVER HERE AND LET’S WASH YOUR HAIR,” she says, because she thinks she’s funny and my best friend.

[almost walked out, but really needed a haircut]

“SO YOU’RE HAVING A C-SECTION?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“OH, I FIGURED YOU HAD TO WITH TWINS.”

“No, that is not true.”

“WELL, AT LEAST WITH A GIRLFRIEND YOU DON’T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT NOT BEING TIGHT DOWN THERE AFTER HAVING TWO BABIES” she “WHISPERS” as the blowdryer is on high and at least three other persons are within twelve feet.

Completely speechless, but able to eek out “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“SO DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY ARE?  ARE YOU GOING TO GET A SONOGRAM?  HAVE YOU STARTED SHOPPING?  HOW WILL YOU DECORATE THE NURSERY?  WILL YOU GET A NANNY?” she asks like a machine gun because this stylist cannot let any oxygen in the vicinity go unspent.

“Almost. Yes.  No.  Don’t know.  Plan to.”

“ARE YOU TELLING PEOPLE WHAT THEY ARE?  WHAT ARE THEY?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“AWE, THAT’S CRUEL.  YOU AND YOUR GIRLFRIEND ARE GOING TO KEEP IT FROM EVERYBODY UNTIL THEY ARE BORN?”

“No, just people like you who ask too many question and call their pregnant clients ‘fat’.”

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