Anyone that knows me, knows how I feel about my hair. I have great hair, thick and soft, a little natural wave with a perfectly placed cowlick in the front. And I occasionally have good hair days. Up until recently, I hit the beauty shop every five weeks for a trim and highlight touch up. This was my “self indulged, spoil myself silly, can’t ever skip, pampering, yes, it’s definitely necessary” reward to myself. I take extremely good care of my hair. I am a product junkie, have gallons of the stuff for every known to man situation. Need extra body, no problem as I have a dozen different ways to deliver it. Need some hair spray, let me see what the weather is and I’ve got you covered. Getting the picture yet? As I said… I occasionally have good hair days, sometimes even fabulous hair days. (When this happens, I make damn sure I take a picture of it.)
But there’s a problem. I can no longer afford my addiction. It was getting to the point that I didn’t walk out of the salon without writing a check for a couple of hundred. (Plus my husband’s eyebrow’s were doing this really weird trick of disappearing into the back of his neck. But got to hand it to him, he just rolled with it.) While I felt it was getting excessively over the top, my hairdresser was worth every single penny. She listened to my ideas, always steered me to the right cut for my face, worked miracles with the best highlights and lowlights placements. As much as I would love to continue to feed my addiction, I can’t. The following photo, besides being a perfect day for me all around, was a perfect hair day…
So to be nice and frugal, I went to the salon at Wal-Mart for my next “do”. And got what I paid for. The cut was ok, better after I got home and evened it up some. But I should have been more diligent… I never trust a stylist that turns the chair so the my back faces the mirror. I have to see what they are doing to my “pride and joy”. I can tell within 2.5 minutes if the cut is going to be good just by watching. (And if the stylist doesn’t take the time to compare the length from side to side, I’ll never sit in her chair again.) After she finished with the highlights and I’m looking like the proverbial idiot with all the foil hanging off my head, I feel a cold plop on my head. What the hell was that???? Then I feel her brushing it down my part. I start scrambling to turn the chair around to see if she’s doing what I think she is. And ladies… I hope you’re sitting down… this stylist from hell is bleaching my roots. It took everything in my body and soul not to bitchslap scream at this poor unsuspecting person. You see, all I had was highlights/lowlights over my natural color. Now I had bleached roots and it would never again blend in.
So now I color my own hair… a box color from the drugstore. I’m too chicken to venture out and mix my own color, much less try to highlight it on my own. So this means that most of my highlights/lowlights have disappeared. It’s almost, and I shudder to say this, one flat color. And when the ends start looking a little ragged, I’ve done a snip or two with my tiny nose hair scissors (which I bought specifically for this purpose, and no, they have never been in my nose). As you can tell from the following photo, I’m letting my hair grow out for two reasons, I want something different and I can’t afford any one that I trust to cut it. This is a good hair day with my hair as of a couple of weeks ago.
I’m liking the mysterious look of the hair covering one eye. Not that I planned it that way, it just won’t stay out of my eyes with long bangs. Anyway… on to the point of my tirade story… I have an interview coming up and I needed desperately to get my hair colored and shaped. So I make a trip to the drugstore and pick up a box of color. My hair tends to go brassy and it had really hit the point of needing to tone it down several notches, so I go one level down and one that was on the “ashy” side. Are you ready to see the results?
No kidding… I turned into Katy Perry within 30 minutes. Don’t get me wrong… I love Katy, I’m just not as adventurous as her when it comes to hair. Seriously, I had lavender gray hair. With some pinkish gold spots mixed in with some poop mud brown. There was even a pale blue/green stripe. I cried half the night.
I got up yesterday morning, hoping that the miracle I prayed for had occurred. The good Lord definitely had more important prayers to handle because my hair was the same. As funny and ridiculous as it is, I was nanoseconds away from the biggest meltdown/panic attack of my life. Since I was desperate and out of vodka to numb calm myself down with, I headed out to find the first place that I could walk into. Then, when the stylist I found started pulling color off the shelf, the other stylist in the shop saw her and started screaming, “NO, NO, NO, DON’T PUT THAT ON HER HAIR!!!!!”, I knew I was in trouble. There was a ten minute battle between these two on the merits of permanent and semi-permanent color and if some chemical in this one or that one would burn my hair off and I’m ready to pass out from stress and the fear of a heart attack. I was so paralyzed with fear that I literally couldn’t move. (A few texts with a friend, telling me that it would be ok did help to calm me down.) She turned the chair around so my back was to the mirror and it didn’t even phase me. I didn’t want to see what was being done at this point. When she finally finished and turned me around to the mirror, it took me 30 seconds to recognize myself. My hair was brown, stick straight, two inches shorter than I asked for and laying so flat on my head that it looked like I had lost over half of it. Being the nice person that I am, I calmly smiled, got up out of the chair and paid her the $40.00 she asked for. I spent the night fighting not to 1.) shave my head and start over and 2.) not to scratch the insanely itchy skin that used to be my scalp before it was burned to hell and back.
It goes without saying that while I’m happy I no longer look like a dead peacock, I am again… not happy with my hair. I waited until this morning to wash and style it myself just out of extreme fear that if I touched it last night, I would never again be able to grow another hair on my head.
So to recap… You get what you pay for.