I know, I know! I’m a cad. I am a dog. A no good scoundrel. What can I say? I want what I want when I want it. I am so first world.
Here’s the story about hair, well my hair and its current iteration.
Let me preface the story.
I had the best hairdresser in Hawaii. Big Wig Salon, Mitch brought my short, uneven, rat bite looking hair to a healthy, shiny, awesome existence (I had it cut at Supercuts and I think the girl was high and not a good, creative, on her game high hence the rat bite looking pieces). He has skills, made wigs for SNL, actually worked on the mom jeans commercial and is just generally amaze balls. But moving away from Hawaii also meant moving away from Mitch.
I have a pretty awesome hairdresser. She did wonderful things to my Huma and her sassy short do. Her products are organic and delectable. She is funny and real and great to hang out with. I love her salon and think we could be real friends outside of hair. She also has her opinions about my hair, mainly its color.
We had tried a semi-permanent color, reddish. I adored it. But then with any darker hair dye color, for those of us with grey or any other color really, we get those pesky roots. And pretty darn fast. When I went in for the touch-up, I ask for permanent dye. I was not using all of my critical thinking abilities. I liked the color and felt pretty and wanted to be a girl who gets her hair done. I was not thinking of the touch-ups every three weeks, the boringness of sitting still in a salon so often or the money. I just wanted to have pretty hair.
My hair dresser said how pretty I looked with that color, how natural it looked and how good my skin looked. I am vain. I liked to be told I have a nice anything really. Flattery can get you somewhere with me. I know, I know. I gotta work on that.
Well, three weeks later I am going mad with roots. They are literally driving me crazy. It is all I see in the mirror, any mirror or any reflective surface. I am fixated. I start emailing my hairdresser what can I do, how can I fix it. Then I get serious and start researching. If I want to have red hair, the most high maintenance of all the colors, I will need to commit to the salon visits, the boredom, the money.
I can’t. I can’t do it.
Was the money what really tipped that scales? My family knows my Scot ways. No, it wasn’t the money that was the biggest determining factor. It was the boredom. The thought of sitting in the chair, once a month for at least an hour was too much. Like a jail sentence where you can leave the jail but have to come back on the weekends or after work. I just couldn’t do it.
So I start researching how to fix this. It seems like I have a lot of time on my hands for hair salons and googling. Well I don’t really, I put off dishes, real estate prospecting and writing blogs to find out the best way to go back to blonde. Turns out red is one of the hardest colors to change. Ugh.
Back to the salon. I explain my reasoning to my hairdresser. She gives me a skeptical look and says she will try to take it blonder. Well, she tried but my hair was still red. A lovely red that I adore but couldn’t keep. I had just sat in the chair for two hours and was no closer to blonde. It was like those really expensive ______ (you fill in the blank, it’s usually shoes for me) that you bought but feel so guilty about you have to return. Or is that just an experience I have? I am a half Scot. Anyway, I felt like I was not getting what I needed/wanted.
A couple of weeks pass and there are those DAMN roots. I had decided to try to go blonde with a different hairdresser. Whaaa?! Premeditated cheating. I cannot even claim “it just happened”, I was looking, prowling, for another person. I felt a tinge of guilt but I went forward and booked an appointment at another salon. Owned by a Mitch type. I was hopeful.
The day of the appointment was on one those days that had me asking, “Is Mercury in retrograde?”. So many things got screwed up that day. My Huma cut her finger and needed stitches, she lost her car keys, forever, one of those days. My biggest obstacle before the appointment was my car died in an intersection. Funny in a way, because I could tell why it died. It seemed like a hose got disconnected and that stopped my car from being able to idle. I just took my girl-only auto class. I couldn’t fix it but I had a good idea what caused it. Sitting in that intersection 30 minutes before my appointment, I really wanted my son to be there in the dead car. To go through those feelings of uh-oh, our car is broken, now what. I think those are important moments. And I could have modeled my not freaking out. Didn’t happen like that though, he wasn’t there. A tow truck came and I had a good friend deliver me to my appointment 15 minutes late. Not so bad for a cheater.
I must have had a look because she asked if I needed a hug. I accepted but it was one of those hugs that lasted too long. Let me tell you, I had a feeling I should not have my hair done. There were too many things going wrong that day. And I told her that before we even started. I told her just don’t melt my hair (that happened to me before). She assured me we should go forward, she wouldn’t melt my hair. I have to stop myself at this sentence and wonder why on Earth would I take any assurance from a stranger I just met? I proceeded anyway. Tell her my hair history, the products used to dye my hair, how often, everything, all my dirty little secrets. In my research, I found that you must be very honest so not to have a bad reaction, etc. Well, small talk as sparse. She applied the bleach, she was not funny or very interesting. We did not gel. She hid away in the break room while the bleach bleached.
I sat looking how you look with a head of foils and waited. Damn chair, damn boredom. She emerges from the break room, we rinse and I get back into the chair. Then she goes, “uh-oh“. WHAT WAS THAT?!?!?! In my mind I am screaming. She said it and I heard it. Uh-oh is bad. I watch her try to recover. She asks what did I use to dye my hair, she has never had this happen before, am I sure I didn’t dye it myself. There was an accusatory tone like it was my fault my hair turned “peach- apricot” in color. In my mind, there was a rant to beat all rants but I didn’t say anything. Just had the worried look on my face.
She decided to tone it to help with the color. I am near tears yet on the fine line of hysterical laughter. I knew that it was not the day for hair dye. I knew Mercury was gonna step in and cause a kerfuffle. The toner helped but overall I was a cheater who had her karma delivered in a peach color.
At the chair, this new hairdresser chopped my curly hair in a not curly layer-y way. We finished our time. I tried to be stoic but was texting my friend and I am sure the hairdresser read my text that had the laugh cry emoji and stated my hair was orange.
I told the mistress hairdresser I was a cheater and I caught hair syphilis. This could be why she charged me full price. As bitter as I was I still tipped. Oh, not my usual 20% just 15% but still tipped and grumbled on the way out.
Sometimes the grass is greener or blonder on the other side and sometimes it is not worth it. At this time, I have those darn grey hairs doing they thing, mainly on the right side of my head. Funny how greying gives no shits about symmetry, its okay symmetry is overrated. I will need to go back to my hairdresser who I like and spill my guts. I will have to tell her I cheated and caught hair syphilis and see if she can help me. The look in her eyes, the disappointment and hope she doesn’t dye my hair red. And I will have to sit there for a couple of hours, bare and vulnerable, exposing my vanity and complete first world-ness.