Actually, this is really my fault, I think. I'm pretty sure I miscommunicated what I was going after, and I paid the price for my niceness.
For the last few months, I've been keeping my hair in a short, pixie style. It took a lot of courage for me to get my hair all cut off in the first place, and I had it done before we moved here from Raleigh. My impetus for cutting off my locks was that I was sick of colouring my hair, but it was two-toned where the roots were growing in. I figured the easiest thing to do was to cut it all off, and I was really pleased at the results. But as so often happens in my life, just when I finally feel settled somewhere, we end up moving. Radio's a little like being in military, but with more moving, and weaker morale.
So, I had to go in search of another hair stylist. I tried to call a few, but unfortunately, we moved at the height of prom season, and I couldn't get an appointment to save my life. I ended up going to a place in the mall, and the woman didn't listen to anything I said. I wasn't happy. So, the search continued. Then my husband suggested this little place in Rincon (the town we're closest to) that he went to, to get his hair cut. He wears his hair very short, so I figured they at least knew how to cut hair short. So I went, and I was very happy.
The place we go to get our hair cut (yes, the whole family), is locally owned place and is the epitome of the small-town southern beauty salon. It's in a tin-roofed house, across from the elementary school, with a few women with very blond hair who call everyone "honey". Imagine Trudy's salon from Steel Magnolias and you'll get the idea. You'll see everyone in there, from old ladies, getting their permanents and blond rinses, to men getting their hair shaved close.
So, I got to feeling bold this past week after my haircut, and talked to my stylist about highlights. She thought some blond streaks would be good, and I agreed, so I went back in Thursday afternoon.
Well, she broke out the frosting cap. For those not in the know, a frosting cap is basically a plastic bonnet with holes in it. The stylist then uses what looks like a crochet hook to pull strands of hair through the holes to colour them, leaving your natural hair colour underneath. Now, I was thinking maybe a few foils, a couple of blond streaks in my normally brown hair. But we got to talking, and she got to pulling and before I knew it, I looked like a Barbie doll with a bad haircut. I also thought we were going with a "golden" or "honey" toned blond. And I'm pretty sure I wound up with bleach on my head. This was the result:
Not pretty, I know. I look a little like Taylor Hicks. But the good thing was you really couldn't see my gray hair. Of course, you also really couldn't see any of my hair . I was in shock. I thought maybe if I lived with it for a couple days, I'd get over it. But Ray didn't really like it, and the more I looked at it, neither did I. The worst part was, in my zeal to trim up some of the more damaged ends on my bangs, I inadvertently snipped off part of my left eyebrow. No, I don't have a picture of that, so don't bother asking.So I sheepishly called the salon Friday morning, and asked when I could colour over what we'd done. To her credit, my stylist, Jessica, said if I wasn't happy, she would fix it for free. I was so overcome with relief, I almost cried right there on the phone.
Back I went, Friday afternoon, after taking the cats in for their vet appointment. Back I went to the chair, and this time, instead of the cap, she painted over my head with a lovely chestnut brown.
However, it was hotter than hell in that salon. Did I mention they don't have central air conditioning, and that it was 98 degrees Fahrenheit outside? Oh, that's about 37 degrees Celsius for my friends outside the U.S. They had two window units for the whole house. So, here I was , my head wrapped in plastic, a plastic cape wrapped around my neck and covering my body, and I was headed to sit under the big dryer, which was located in the back of the house on an enclosed porch, with very little insulation.
Quick aside: I've loved these dryers since I was a kid. I always thought they represented something rather glamourous, ladies lined up with these giant heated helmets, reading their fashion magazines. I've always been fascinated with them, really.
But it was so hot, I thought I was going to die. And then Jessica asked me if I wanted a Popsicle. I thought the heat was making me hallucinate, or the sound of the dryer was affecting my hearing, but she asked me again, and in a daze I answered yes.
There I was, not the picture of glamour, wrapped head to toe in plastic, head trapped inside a beehive shaped heater, sucking on a grape Popsicle. And yet, I was strangely contented.
The good news is, these were the results:
I am so grateful to Jessica for fixing my hair, and doing it with a smile on her face. She put it back to it's original colour, but better, because now that I've washed it a few times and been out in the sun, the parts that were originally bleached are lighter than the darker parts of my hair, so it actually looks like I have natural highlights now.
And Jen's hairs all lived happily ever after.
The End.
