Rescue me (again)

I need some Titty.

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter.  I'm talking, of course, about my hairdresser.

And yes, that's really her name.

I go to this funky little hair place on Colfax where the stylists sport the requisite hip adornments, from piercings to blue hair to baby doll dresses worn with Chuck Taylors and tights with holes in the knees.

But Titty is there.  Titty, who is remarkably normal looking,* and yet who oozes both hipness and tonsorial expertise.  Titty, who rescued my 'do after that last dumbass destroyed it (twice).

Titty, who, when I sit down in her chair, offers me a PBR (and I'm not unique -- all clients enjoy this benefit).

Her fix held up so well that it's been almost 6 months and only now am I thinking I need to go in for a trim, not because the layers haven't grown out proportionally, but because the pieces in the front are hanging in my face.  Titty is *that* good.

Funny story:  Dudley, a mutual friend of ours and Kathleen's was in town visiting a few months back.  His hair was getting a little bushy so Kathleen's husband made an appointment for him with Titty.  But Dudley was all worried that everyone was taking the piss out of him and setting him up for a huge practical joke in which he would go in, ask for "Titty" and promptly be run out of the store on a rail for his effrontery.  He was pleasantly surprised when Titty in fact existed, was a hottie, offered him a beer, and gave him a great haircut.

He, too, became a life-long fan of Titty.  And really, aren't we all?

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*I have no idea if this is her given name (I tend to doubt it), but for whatever reason, I assumed Titty would be the name of an older lady (a bitty?) because no one in her 20s would take on such a moniker.  But Titty is indeed in her 20s, and totally adorable, and cool enough to carry it off.