Well, yesterday was one for the books. If you have read previous blogs, you know I have made the decision to stop coloring my hair for a number of reasons. However, this process has proven more challenging than I ever imagined. I have dabbled with blending the greys, silvers, and whites, I have trimmed, and I have tried to make it as pain free and attractive as possible. Yesterday, I had my long-standing appointment with my long-time stylist and we were going to make the jump into coloring my hair it’s natural color…or lack of color.
I have been seeing Mandi for almost a decade. She has never given me a bad cut, a bad color, or bad advice. When we moved, I cheated on her and tried to find a stylist closer to home but alas, after three or four bad cuts, Eric made the careful suggestion to perhaps start seeing Mandi again. If The Bibbed Wonder is making suggestions about hair styles, one knows it must be bad. So, back to Mandi I went. She forgave me for my indiscretions and took me back. We have been happy ever since…until yesterday.
I had decided upon a shorter cut to remove some of the over processed dead ends. Mandi unceremoniously cut off about six inches of my hair and then began to mix the color. I heard the other stylists discussing the new color system they had just began working with and it sounded like there were mixed reviews. I paid no attention to it and just conversed about day to day life. Mandi consulted another stylist on color and blending which should have raised a red flag but I trust her completely and decided not to interfere. As she slathered my head in a lovely periwinkle blue paste, I jokingly asked for reassurance that my hair would not be this color. Mandi’s response was, “time will tell!” I am used to Mandi’s cynical sense of humor and again quelled my fears. Then I went to the rinse bowl. There was a lot of “hmmming” and “huhing.” For those of you well-seasoned in salon speak, that is never a good sign. The Bean came over and her response was, “Oh, wow!” Mandi ushered her away and assured me all was well. All was not well; my hair was blue in patches and bright peroxide orange in patches and at the roots. I was again assured it just needed a toner. It was toned. It was a little less blue and a lot more orange. I have never seen my cool as a cucumber, multicolored hair, tattooed, bad ass of a stylist flustered but flustered she was. Her co-worker, she was flustered too. They try to remain cool but I sense the vibe. I go back to the rinse bowl; more bleach is slathered onto my hair. I am now three hours into a forty-five-minute appointment, Mandi looks panicky, my bean looks nervous, and my scalp is on fire. The bleach is rinsed, I am again toned and it is now urinary tract infection yellow. Urinary tract infection yellow is a terrible color in general but on one’s head it is somewhat frightening. Again, I am bleached, toned, and rinsed. My ends are a rather lovely shade of steely white but my roots are Strawberry Shortcake Doll reddish blonde. At this point, Mandi is afraid of me for a change and tells me she hates to see that look on my face. I am reassured all will be well. I am to give it until Sunday when she will check in on me. I am told if I am not happy, she will come to my house and fix it on her day off. I am only charged for Jordan’s hair cut and I am sent away with apprehension and a look of utter disappointment on my dear stylist’s face.
My bean, God love her, assures me the entire ride home that I look beautiful, that I could wear a brown paper bag and look good, that I look modern. The child really is a dream, she is the purest, kind, empathetic soul I have ever met. However, her words of reassurance only reinforce the fact that my hair looks truly awful. I arrive home and look at myself through my phone in the natural sunlight. It’s bad, it’s very bad. I decide to take a shower, style my hair myself and apply makeup that is more fitting to my new look. After all this, I have had it and I do what I always do in situations of extreme stress…I cry. Ugly, snot running down my face, red splotchy patches all over my face and neck cry. Thank God, Eric was not home to witness any of this. Not only would he make jokes that I am certain would have him in time out for an extended period of time, he would be annoyed that I am allowing something a trivial as a bad haircut/color to rock my world.
You see, I am certain most men just don’t understand. A woman’s hair is like an extension of her personality and who she is…at least that is how I view my hair. When one is rocking a great cut and having an awesome hair day, one feels as though any battle can be won. However, if one feels bad, insecure, or frumpy, well let’s just say the entire day is off. This has the potential to be a very long-lasting bad hair day. All I can think is, oh dear God, I have to go to market with this hair! Why could this have not happened during quarantine? Never being one to accept less than perfect circumstances, I text Mandi and ask what will happen if I apply dark brown to my red roots. Her response is, it can’t get any worse. Sigh…never tempt the universe with that challenge.
I follow Mandi’s directive and apply my dark brown color to my roots, wait 35 minutes, wash and rinse. The good news, I am no longer sporting Strawberry Shortcake doll reddish blonde. I now look like a Disney villain with gothic dark roots and steely white ends. My make-up has run down my cheeks making me look like some sort of frightening gothic clown doll. To make matters worse, the dark color just makes me look old…like, look at the lines around my eyes old. At this point, F!@# a Duck! is proclaimed, the tools are unceremoniously slammed into the sink and I give up.
The Bibbed Wonder returns home, fixes himself a drink and sits on the porch afraid to utter a word. The Bean has retired to her room with a book because she knows I know my hair looks hideous and no amount of reassurance will fix it. Even my big, red dog crush is quietly laying at my feet in sadness or fear…perhaps a combination of the two. After his drink, my bibbed wearing buddy tells me to put it in perspective, its hair. This coming from the man who can rock a shaved head…really? I finally go to bed resolved that tomorrow will be better.
It was better until I had to talk to people. My friend CiCi was in the soap studio this morning. When she saw me for the first time, she asked me if I had cut my own hair…annoyed sigh. She then informed me my hair cut was not beneficial to my facial structure and I should get a new cut. Again, annoyed sigh…I really wanted to translate, “No, sh@# Sherlock!” into Chinese but I refrained. I asked The Bibbed Wonder how bad it is on a scale from 1-10, he carefully told me I was over a 6. Sigh…at this point I’m just sorry I communicate with people. I then sent Mandi a text asking if she had time to fix this debacle today. She generously told me to come to the salon at 4, which is when they close, and she will fix it.
At this point, I am thinking of cutting off all my hair and starting over. I do not have a cute, tight, young face like I once did and I am not in love with the idea of short hair. However, my poor hair is so abused, dry, and damaged, I think the most humane thing to do is put it out of my misery. So, I will kindly, gently color my hair all one simple brown color, cut it off in a stylish pixie cut, and wait for germ jail to begin so I can begin the painful growing out process. On the bright side, there will be far less color to deal with and my natural hair can begin anew. On the downside, not only will I have to grow out short hair, I will have to grow out grey hair. Again, the universe conspires to spite me. However, in the words of The Bibbed Wonder, I must stop crying over first world problems. He is correct, which vexes me to no end.
I hope you enjoy and relate to my lamentation of my first world problems. I wish I could make this stuff up; I really do. If you see me at market tomorrow, don’t be shocked by my strikingly different appearance. If you are so inclined send some good juju my way that the new cut goes well and I don’t look like I did battle with a razor and lost.
As always, stay safe, stay smart, don’t forget to laugh at yourself, and wash your hands.
P.S. If I knew how to download pictures from my phone to the computer I would share my painful truth with you.