Monday, September 14, 2009

Orange You Glad It Wasn't You?

CRAP. It's now officially the 15th of September. Half the month is already gone and much to my shame, I've only managed to post one blog.

Once again, I've allowed myself to get caught up in the news (if you can call it that) and let my bloomers get in a twist. What is WRONG with me?! I have a self-imposed rule of not engaging in debates with others about politics or religion and I have broken that rule on several occasions during the past couple of weeks. I'm here here to tell you that I've had a very stern conversation with Me and may have even kicked my own ass a few times. I have promised Me to knock it off and get back to doing what Mr. Right always tells me to do. "Just hush up and sit there and look pretty." (I'm going to really catch some shiznit for that one.)

The tizzy I've been in has had me so mind-numbingly befuddled that I forgot to tell you about The Great Hair Incident. This one goes down on the books as one of the greats. Or...the worsts. However you want to look at it.

In an effort to begin my 41st year looking and feeling like the cougar that is Me, I decided to get all of the hairs on my head, colored, clipped and coiffed. Ooh la la. The hair gal I'd been using and whose work I really dug, up and moved shop to some hell hole out in the desert that required directions like, "Turn off the pavement onto the two-lane dirt road..." Uh uh. So, I made an appointment at a kind of upper end-ish chain salon that I'd been to before and, from which, had walked out with really kick ass hair.

I arrived at my appointment with The Duchess in tow. I was going to be there less than an hour and the Duchess l-o-v-e-s to go to hair salons, nail salons, shoe stores...anywhere there's girly stuff. She's an angel that way. Behaves marvelously. So, off I went, explaining to my stylist exactly what I wanted. Ms. Thing who was all of 21, smiled and said, "Do you want your roots done? The gray is starting to really show through." Well, hell. I debated for a minute or two while studying my roots and then, of course, opted for some color to be slapped on my head.

Ms.Thing proceeded to squeeze a bottle full of chemicals into my hair that smelled like it could peel paint off a barn. She massaged it into my head, patted it ever so sweetly, then...left. Apparently, she'd double booked herself and had another client to tend to. This did not bode well. As I read a magazine and listened to The Duchess make up hundreds of nonsensical knock knock jokes at which I pretended to laugh hilariously, I watched the clock's hands almost seem to go backwards. Ms. Thing finally came over and checked on me and said, "Five more minutes." She went back to her other client and came back in thirty minutes. I'd been there an hour and a half and, over an hour of that time, I'd been sitting with smelly goo in my hair.

By the time Ms. Thing came to rinse out my hair, my scalp was itching and burning a bit. The Duchess followed me over to the sink and as my hair was being rinsed out, she kept saying things like, "Oh, Mommy! Your hair is so pretty" and, "Mommy, your hair matches my shorts!" Her shorts were pink. Oh, shit.

Back in the chair, the towel came off and sure as shootin', Mommy's hair was pink. Damn. Ms. Thing made quite a production about asking me if my "hair pulled red." What?! I guess that's beauty school speak for, "Does your hair naturally have red in it ma'am?" Deciding loudly that, "This just won't do, " she proceeded to squeeze another bottle of goo into my hair. Thirty minutes later, she returned from her other client to check my head which was now whimpering and whining a bit. (Or, maybe that was me.)

Off to the sink we went for another rinse. The Duchess leaned over the chair next to me and said, "Mommy...your hair looks like the sun!" In my head, I was dropping the f-bomb like a sailor on shore leave.

Back to the chair with the towel off and now...Mommy's hair did indeed look like the sun. The kind of sun you see in picture books about the Old West where a cowboy and his horse are headed into the sunset and there's a lovely tangerine glow blazing over the horizon.
By now, I'd spent 2 1/2 hours in the chair. My stomach was growling and I was nervous that the Duchess would soon be growing restless. Quite frankly, between the hunger pangs, worrying about The Duchess and the ever increasing feeling that my scalp was going to spontaneously combust, I was a bit of a wreck. My foot began tapping incessantly and I couldn't seem to control it. Not only was I having minor heart palpitations about the state of my hair, I couldn't keep my eyes off of the poor girl who was Ms. Thing's other victim. She'd been sitting in a full-on foil hair do under a dryer for about an hour now. I had visions of us clinging to each other and crying as we sat in our jail cell together for the beating death of one, Ms. Thing: beauty school dropout.

I picked up my cell phone and called Mr. Right and asked him to high tail it in my direction the very second he could leave work. And, because he is indeed Mr. Right, he assured me that he would wrap things up a.s.a.p and come to the rescue of his fair tangerine-haired maiden.

After consulting a couple of other stylists, Ms. Thing informed me that she was going to put a "toner" on my hair. She also informed me that because she had totally crapped up my hair (not what she said, but what I was thinking), she would only charge me for the cut and not the color. I looked at the clock. Three hours into this and I hadn't even had my hair cut yet.

"Toner" in place, I sat and waited. Again. Then, back to rinse. Still orange. Another toner. Better, but still resembling the glow emitted from a Napalm drop in those Vietnam movies.

By this time, Mr. Right had arrived to rescue The Duchess and take her for drink. (She was treated to a Sprite although I think she much more deserved a vodka tonic for all she'd been put through.) Ms. Thing was hovering over me asking if the color was okay so of course I lied and told her it was. I'd been there for three and a half hours for hell's sake. It was time for a cut.

She snipped, clipped, thinned, textured and every other verb they learn in beauty school and then proceeded to blow out my hair. By this time, I almost literally couldn't see straight from all of the chemicals affecting my contacts. My head felt like it had been tenderized with one of those primitive meat mallets and my stomach was in complete revolt. I forced a smile, paid my bill and got the hell out of there.

Mr. Right convinced me not to touch my hair until the next morning. "Let it rest," he said. I have no idea what that meant. But, I let it rest.

The next morning, I showered and washed my hair. It still reeked and my head still hurt. I exited the shower, towel-dried my hair and began to style it. It didn't work. One side flipped under perfectly and the other side went in three different directions. still glowed orange. Finally, I turned and held a small mirror up to check the back of my head and noticed for the first time that I had a huge, almost black patch of hair, right at the back of my head. Ms. Thing had colored the underside of my hair in back, four shades darker than my normal hair color which was now twenty shades darker than my current day-glo tangerine blond. I'm somewhat embarrassed to tell you that I looked like a hooker.

I cried. Then I called Mr. Right and cried. Then I called the salon manager and cried.

Long story short, (HA!!! My loquaciousness cannot be stifled!) a lovely stylist named Elizabeth, managed to do a decent job of removing the orange and patching up the horrifically unbalanced layers in my hair and didn't charge me a thing. I tipped her twenty bucks for her time and for managing to not make my hair fall out.

My hair turned out so light that my roots started showing almost immediately. And, I still had the black patch in back. So, this past Saturday morning, I'd had enough. I reached up to the top shelf in the closet and pulled down the box of "Champagne Blond" hair color. (Preference by L'Oreal, because I'm worth it, dammit.) Mr. Right almost stroked out. "What are you DOING?! Your hair is going to fall OUT!" I was willing to take my chances.

Twenty-five minutes later, a rinse and a blow dry and ta-da!! Hair that no self-respecting hooker would be caught dead with. It looked damn normal. Unfortunately, I have no skill in cutting hair, so I haven't been able to rectify the lousy cut. I have, however, been seriously contemplating cutting it all off and starting over. I look great with short hair, but Mr. Right has been exercising his Constitutional right to peaceful protest.

I shall take Mr. Right's wishes into consideration, carefully weigh my feelings about growing my hair out all over again (it's an excruciatingly long process), consider all of my options, then go get my hair cut like Halle Berry's. Uh...yeah. I wanna look like this:

A haircut will accomplish that, right? Right....


Lee Ryan said...

sure ...just trim a little around the edges and you're there!

I love the smell of napalm in the morning!

Mr. Right must be heroic, but I'm faintly disturbed, as a man, over the degree to which he's tuned-in to the impact of hair coloring on the overall health of your hair. I'm sure that if I were manlier - I'd be able to handle it just fine.

I'm never sure I can offend someone until I've worked money, family issues, sex and religion into the conversation somehow. It's important to hit each dimension.

I am... said...

Lee: I hope that by saying, "trim around the edges," you're referring to my hair and not, um, any other parts of my body. And, yes...Mr. Right is heroic as well as being very in touch with the female psyche. It's a lovely combination. He swoops in to rescue me AND picks out the shoes I should be wearing wh
when he arrives.

I completely forgot about the sex and money part! But, what with the state of our goverment right now, you pretty much can cover all of the offensive bases in one conversation.

Kariee said...

Oh dear.

I hate when the hairstylist that you love and adore and that you run to for more than hair-cutting advice just decides to up and leave. My hairstylist moved to California. How could she do that to me?! Sad, sad day.

I think short hair is ever so stylish. You should get it cut short!

~JarieLyn~ said...

What a nightmare. I too, now regularly use color from a box. It's so hard to find a good hair dresser these days without paying an arm and a leg, or rather a head.

Maybe you'll travel down that dirt road next time.....

I hope you get your hair fixed the way you want it.

ellen abbott said...

See, this is the reason I just let my hair be and only get two hair cuts a year. No bleach, no color, no perms, no blow dry, no gel, just a short cut that lets my waves do their thing.

And yeah, you'll just like Halle (just don't look in the mirror).

lakeviewer said...

Oh, poor, poor you. What an ordeal. You deserve better, much better. Don't ever go back to those charlatans.

Looking on the bright side, hair grows out.

I am... said...

Karie: A shorter "do" is currently a serious consideration. Thanks for your support!

Jarie Lyn: Dirt roads are beginning to sound better and better. I omitted the other reason why I don't want to go back to my old stylist though. Her boss tries to get me to become a sales person for a beauty line he's tring to sell. It's a multi-level marketing deal. No thanks. I just want my hair done, Dude.

Ellen: Smart lady! My hair is naturally curly too, so when I go short, my hair becomes super low maintenance. I just kinda mess it up and go. It just seems to keep sounding better and better...

Rosaria: I laughed when I read your comment because I realize completely how shallow and vain I am to care so much about my hair. It's a pretty petty concern relative to all of the real suffering in the world, I know. Yes, hair grows out, thank goodness and thank goodness I'm so fortunate that a crappy orange haircut is my biggest problem!

Aunt Juicebox said...

I guess it would depend on who you plan to have do the cutting. Hopefully not the same place. Yikes, you poor woman. I have noticed that the hair dye I buy for myself from the store lasts longer than the stuff my daughter gets put on her hair, at a professional salon her dad takes her to and costs over $100 to do. I think it's intentional, so you come back sooner.

Linda Rae said...

I told Poppy that I would let my hair grow out when I was retired and didn't have to go to work every day looking "done up". This translates to your situation as, "when all the children are gone and we have downsized our home."

I am happy to report that as of today, I can put my hair in a pony tail (a stubby one, but a pony tail nevertheless.)

This is just information for anyone who might be able to use it.

Cut it if you choose (and the Halle Berry look is exactly the right look for you, I think). Your Mr Right trusts you to make good decisions for your self. So do I.

NanU said...

Oh, my, what an experience! I can't believe you actually paid the first girl. Though, come down to it, I probably would have too. Does she still have a job there?

Reya Mellicker said...

OMG what a nightmare!

In my head, I was dropping the f-bomb like a sailor on shore leave.

At least!! Hair is so important, I am so sorry you had this experience. I, too, have had my share of hair disasters. That's why I pay the Big Bucks when I go see my hair guy. He is a genius, worth every penny.

Love the new blog format. You are I am? I like that. Happy 41!

Lee Ryan said...

Yes - your hair. On your head. That's all it should take.

Missy said...

You always make me laugh! I love the "let it rest" comment. That's my philosophy when things are broken....just let it rest and see if it works tomorrow....and a lot of times it does. Obviously that doesn't work with hair color!

Angie said...

I'm a little late to show up (sorry, I've been really busy lately), but great blog entry. My sister also enjoyed it - she found your blog because she enjoyed one of the comments you left on my blog and came over to check it out.

P.S. - I stopped following you on twitter, but only because I am assuming you have lost interest and are done with that. Have you given up on twitter?

Bee and Rose said...

I had a similar experience a while back where I came out looking like Kelly Clarkson (or a tiger...the jury's still out on that one!) I was crying with you!!!

Glad that it's all turned around now!

(love your post title!)

Angela said...

It has to do with names, I think. Elizabeth was good, you say? My Polish hairlady is called Elszbieta, and she uses a knife instead of scissors and I really like my haircut afterwards, and what does she charge me for washing (including a massage with gel) and cutting? 11 Euros, about 15 bucks! Apart from that, I have decided to do my roots at home, in the colour I like (my own). But I`m sure you look good in tangerine!!