So my mom and I went to her hairdresser’s on Friday. This has become something of a ritual when I come back East to visit. A sort of mother and daughter thing.
In the past I’ve been persuaded to allow a semi-permanent color that lasts four to six weeks to be applied to my hair, with the stipulation that it look just like my regular hair color, only covering up the encroaching white. I had been happy with the results.
This time was a little different. She asked if I wanted the usual color, the secret formula of which she had carefully recorded on an index card and squirreled away. I said yes, and she retreated to the back to mix her witch’s brew.
As she applied the color to my hair, she informed me that she had added some extra red “to make it warmer”. “Huh,” I thought, “that’s not what I asked you to do.” But since she was already applying the color it seemed that there wasn’ t much I could do, and even if there had been I was inclined to trust the hairdresser, who is very nice and personable and is getting married at the end of the summer. Who was I to make a scene?
When I emerged from the procedure, it was clear things had gone horribly awry. The first indication was when the hairdresser noted, “Hmm. Your hair took the color really well.” I asked, “Is that a good thing?” “Well, it’s kind of bright…”. She dried my hair a bit to see what it would look like, and it was, frankly, shocking. Others in the salon compared me to Ronald McDonald, and not in a good way.
Sometimes, when a hairdresser screws up, they don’t really see it, and they think it’s great, and you think it’s horrible, and awkwardness ensues. One good thing about this situation was that everyone in the salon was in agreement- my hair was now a hideous disfigurement. So, the hairdresser, taking responsibility for her actions, set about fixing it by throwing some brown on top of the bright red. Although it did add an additional hellish hour to the salon appointment, it did improve things considerably- I no longer look freakish (at least, I don’t think I do. If your opinion differs, feel free to not disabuse me of the notion). But now I look different, which isn’t really what I was going for. It has now become clear to me that one good way to not look different is to not allow people to apply random chemicals to my hair. Lesson learned.
I kind of wish I had gotten a picture of the Ronald McDonald look, but I think I was too shocked to whip out the cell phone, and since the hairdresser was clearly alarmed and chagrined I had no wish to add to her distress. I do have a picture of what I look like now and will presumably be looking like for the next four to six weeks. In some lights, it looks kinda purple. I guess the upside is that the hairdresser didn’t charge for it…
[…] Wherein Kelly gets her hair messed with. […]
Kelly, that’s a great story, especially since almost everyone can relate. Last summer I got my hair cut by the barber on campus (I was in a hurry, okay) and I asked for “short in back.” Well, after he finished he showed my in the mirror and said, “is that too short?”
Umm, how do you resond to that? Not only was it so short that my pale, never-seen-the-sun-since-infanthood skin above my neck glared under the flourescent lights, but he also have me what he called an “east coast taper,” which I describe as the Hitler haircut, with an abrupt step from long to short, looking like a rubber band was wrapped tightly around my head. This haircut looks good on toddlers, by the way, but not those past Jesus’s final age!
So, long story short, I feel your pain. -Seth
You look lovely as always! I like this self portrait and I bet Victor is printing and framing it.
Just so you know…your “library swat team” photo hit EXPLORE!!!!! You are famous…
still miss you.