After the home bleaching, and the second home bleaching, and the home toning with a darker shade of haircolor to please God make my hair not gold, I had giant, bleeding scabs all over my head. I decided that the color was good enough to live with and besides, if I did anything else to my scalp, I'd probably be bald, so I would let my hair "rest" for as long as possible before going to the salon again. I'm also trying to grow my hair out from the buzzcut I received at a very prestigious and expensive salon in New York City, so I had two motives for running around with two inches of black roots in my mullet. (I looked like a sunflower at one point - black in the middle, yellow on the outside.)
Today, however, Tony and I walked in to a salon just up the road from us to make appointments before we go to Vegas in a week and a half. I didn't feel comfortable rocking the hillbilly sunflower 'do any longer, and Borat needed a trim. We were looking for appointments later this week, but the extremely bored staff (I guess thunderstormy Mondays are the day to go to the salon - free tip of the week!) begged us to stay and get our hair done IMMEDIATELY!
So, we threw caution to the wind and went for it. Tony's stylist Candy trimmed his hair for about three hours, so I'm a little suspicious. Either she was really bored and had no other clients for the day, or she thought my husband was cute, at which point I will cut the bitch. (However, she gave him a very nice haircut, so I'll have to do it anonymously in a dark alley or something. And be sure to leave her hands out of it.)
My hairstylist, Bambi (All the names have been changed to protect identities, mostly mine.) was a perfectly nice 15-year-old who weighed about 12 pounds. She was very pleasant, so I chose to overlook the fact that her hair training must have happened at Boone County Junior High and trusted her with my mess of a hairstyle. Much to my relief, she did not laugh out loud when I showed her my roots OR my mullet, but got right down to work placing 35 million foil strips on my head. I have so much hair that the stylist inevitably has to leave me, mid-foil, to mix up more haircolor. I'm a gorilla.
Now, I trusted Bambi because she had a very nice, very natural style. Her hair was brunette, didn't even look highlighted (her parents probably wouldn't let her color her hair until she was a junior in high school) and was perfectly straight, no crazy spiky stuff, no hairspray. So, I assumed that when she was done cutting and coloring my hair, she would give me something similar, especially because I told her that I like to let my hair air-dry and I don't use any product and I'm low-maintenance, etc.
No such luck. Bambi, just like every other hairstylist in the known world, gave me the bubble. She dried and fluffed and root-lifted and back-combed and ratted and sprayed (and did I mention I told her I was going straight home after I left?) and moussed and picked and placed my hair into a perfect helmet.
Keep in mind, I staggered into this salon with serious two-tone hair that hadn't been washed that day, hooked behind my ears and not even parted straight? What part of that look said that I had a political fundraiser to attend for my husband later that night? Did she really think I was 45 years old and a bank branch manager?
The worst part is, because my hair was colored, I can't wash it until Wednesday (gotta let that new hair color settle over my formerly banana-yellow locks.) So, I'm stuck with bubble hair, slept-on bubble hair or a hat for the next day and a half.
I swear, next time I go to the salon, I'm going to look my stylist in the eye, and say, "Put down that comb, because if it even comes near the crown of my head, I will cut a bitch."
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