I Am Not My Hair…Or Am I?
One of the toughest tasks for any newcomer is replacing services. So after our move, I set about systematically replacing my beloved vet, cleaning person, and hairdresser.
Ow. I’d like to think I’m not my hair. That I am me, and if my hair turns white (which it sort of did) or turd-murkle brown (which it definitely was), that my happy place won’t disappear.
But it did. Golly, did it ever. See, my first venture to a hairstylist gained me excellent color, but the stylist/owner fobbed me off on an employee who got angry and burned my scalp repeatedly while drying my hair. Even when I complained, she kept on applying the heat.
Next, I went to a lady who decided my hair should be brown. She did a wizard cut–which can be hard on curly hair–but brown? Ugh. But the cut was really, really good, and she did offer to lighten it up. So I went back to her and said that it was, indeed, too dark. So she put the coloring on my hair, redecorated her salon (no lie, she was futzing around with the Christmas tree and the wreaths and the ornaments on her shelves), and then we had the following exchange:
Me: You’ve lived here a long time. Do you know the Salahis? The husband and wife who crashed the White House State Dinner?
Hairdresser/Salon Owner: Yes, I do. I’ve been on their yacht. You know, he was a perfectly nice young man. Very sweet. Good to his parents. And then he met that…that…that BLONDIE!
Need I tell you that my hair color was pretty darn weird? Like a bleached out lemon rind.
So I went to another hairdresser. (Are you counting? If I haven’t left anyone out, we’re up to four in four months now.) This salon kept sending me invitations as a “newcomer” to try them out. The place proved almost impossible to find. The stylist was nice…but she added so many low lights, my hair was back to…ugh…some disgusting shade of mud.
I went around all week avoiding mirrors. My husband said, “It’s not too bad.” Which is code for, “I won’t divorce you.”
Finally, in desperation, I went to a salon in the mall and threw myself on their mercy. “Can anyone here help me?”
And a nice man did. Then, because we were BOTH worried about the color, he dried my hair. The stylist made my hair straight, as you can see from the photo of me and Debbi Mack at a signing at The Little Professor Book Center in Eldersburg, MD.
It’s still not me.
I’m a curly girl.
But it’s close.