Saturday, February 24, 2018

It was just after I'd found out that I have a third cancer-but before I actually started breathing again-that I decided I needed all non-essential chemicals to come offa my head. 

Prrrrrrrrrrrrronto. 

I did what any 55 year old woman would do. I consulted the girl with the candy colored hair. Surely she'd know where to go. No?

I went to the shop for an official consult. Showed photos. This is what I want, said me. Are you absolutely sure? The stylist asked.


Uh-huh. 


I'd been thinking and watching and waiting to do this for a long long time. All my coolest and most progressive ladies-and that is not to say that the ladies who haven't done it are neither cool nor progressive but it takes just a little extra giant bit o' bravery to stop dying your hair. And I know that, because for a long time, I was afraid to do it. 

I didn't want to look like my Mom. 

My Mom had a sort of a pure white, Cleopatra-shaped, signature do and while I admired it on her-and I did-everybody did-you could find her so easily in a crowd-our signatures were different and I liked it that way. 

I had a massage client and what she lacked in tipping abilities (5 bucks?! What the hell is this-colonial times?!)she made up for in the sharing of good stories. She had lovely grey hair and I asked her how she got there. It was a 50 minute story(not including time for dressing and undressing). It takes, she said, about a year. 

You're going to see the pink of your scalp through your hair and Joan Rivers (maytheLordhavemercyonhersoul)sells a powder that will help with that. (I never bought it.)You just have to keep cutting and cutting and waiting and waiting and one day-just like the Greenwich Village you read about in story books when you were in grade school-you're there hoisting grocery bags up four flights of steps to your summer sublet of fun. 

Figuratively speaking er whadever. 

I showed up right on time or, knowing me, way early for my appointment at Ulta. I never saw the attraction of getting your hair done in a store with jugs of shampoo-buying strangers staring at you, but I had this internal fantasy that while the bleach was taking effect, they'd usher you over to eyeshadow lane and spackle you completely up until you'd be at peak beau-tay. 

Nuh-uh. The same exact inane moronic conversations that led you to escaping the beauticians chair in the first place. For SEVEN HOURS. 


Was it seven or was it six? I don't recall exactly except that right after I forked over more than ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS(the very last time I'll ever pay this much for something like this, I thought) when it was time for the big reveal? My hair was brown. 

And she was so proud of her work she asked if she could take a photo and I said sure and before I got a good look at it? I asked if she'd take one for me. 
(This is the 14 dollar haircut from Supercuts. Ulta never scissored me.)


I was so pisstified. (Defined here as angry and confused.) Did I not go there a week earlier to have a consultation? Did I not show her a photo of what I wanted?  My library supervisor Julie-a gentle, gentle teller of the truth-said, "I'm not saying it doesn't look pretty, it's Just Not What You Wanted." E-mails were sent. A do-over was promised. 

Yet another six hours in the chair. This time with the salon manager who talked about how he'd been out of the store because he up-chucked during the hospitalization for the absess of his tooth. *sigh* I tried to maintain a good level of pissed-ness for the duration of the appointment but after five hours they broke me and once again, upon leaving with less than stellar results-and their prescription that I needed to come back One More Time For All Over Highlights I said it was fine-and ran like hell. 

It still wasn't near enough to being right and a salon popped into my Facebook feed where the girl specialized in fixing someone elses color gone wrong. We traded Facebook e's back and forth. What I asked for. What they gave me. What they did the second time. 

She could fix it. When could I be there?

I went. It was going to take one bottle of toner and some purple shampoo to go but that I was never going to have to sit in a salon chair and get my hair bleached Ever Again. Was I sure? This time it got really serious because I was in for so much money and at this point there was no turning back. Go ahead, said me. And I watched as my gold-ish brownish hair turned into the color of wet newspapers.


'Put a little lipstick on', my Mother would say. 


And that wore off and purple shampoo happened and that wore off and a millennial gave me the recipe for manic panic purple home refreshing treatment(available upon request) and that wore off and I just got tired of the whole thing and here's me now or almost a week ago. 

Starting to feel a whole lot more like myself. 

Yay. 

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