STRANGER THAN FICTION: HAIRSTYLIST UNCOVERS CUSTOMER'S TWO-TIMING WAYS

It was just another mortifying moment, one of hundreds since my return to my beloved, native Southeast Missouri from the anonymity of the big city.

Picture it. Major discount department store, 11 p.m. on a Saturday, potato chip aisle, wearing a very nice blouse with a very large ketchup stain from a hamburger eaten in the car only minutes before. A smiling man approaches.

Let's pause for a moment and explore a theory. I used to think I ran into acquaintances every time I left home because Cape Girardeau is a relatively small town, and my job allows me to meet many different people in the course of a week.

But now I believe I'm simply cursed. Some evil force pushes acquaintances toward me at the least opportune moments. Like when I'm covered in my own dinner and involved in such a loser-type activity as picking out fattening snack foods when people who actually have lives are out on the town.

And it was even worse this time, because the smiling man in the store was my ex-stylist.

I read a newspaper article once that explained how to "break up" with a stylist. It said to calmly and non-judgmentally explain the reason why you're seeing someone else. It said the customer at least owes her former stylist an explanation.

That's all well and good, except when your stylist is the nicest man on the planet, and the only reason I switched is because I'm obsessed with having hair exactly like a woman I work with. Her hair is professional. It's modern. It bounces and shines. I asked her who cuts it and shamelessly began going to that stylist.

"Cut it like JoAnne's," I demanded.

Yes, I am Jennifer Jason Leigh in "Single White Female."

Since then, I've been avoiding my former stylist like the guilt-stricken floozy I am. I've actually RUN past his salon, and I don't run.

But there he was in the chip aisle, making a beer-and-snack run for a party going on at his place. I wondered how different my hair looked from the last time I'd seen him. Maybe he'd think I was just letting it grow out.

"How are you doing?" he said with a genuine smile.

"Fine, fine," I said. "And you?"

We made small talk for a few minutes. I was painfully aware of the huge red stain in the middle of my chest about eye-level for the average person. And my hair looked horrible because I'd let the wind blow through it on the drive to the store.

I'm sure he walked away thinking, "Poor dear. She never should have left me."

Who knows when the curse will strike next? I'm thinking it will be when I'm standing at the drug store counter with hemorrhoid cream, toilet paper, acne lotion and a pack of cigarettes.

I figure the captain of the 1986-87 Sikeston High School football team will be standing in line, not looking a day over 25 and shaking his head at me, a former classmate.

Yeah. That'd be about right.