Hair Salon Woes

I recently went in for my bi-monthly Hairapy appointment.

Though I've been experienced the pain of a bad haircut in the past, I think, like childbirth, that I usually forget all that pain by the time my next appointment rolls around.

Somehow, the moment I cross the threshold of a salon, the sights and smells seem to contribute to this renewed sense of hope that this time...this time it's going to be the 'best haircut ever', I'm going to love it and I'm going to walk out of the salon feeling like a new woman.

I was a bit overdue for this appointment.

This old gray mare just ain't what she used to be.

The old 'touch-up-the-grays-with-a jumbo-black-Sharpie' trick no longer works for me.

Mostly because having a daredevil five year old son has caused grays to come in at an alarming rate of speed.

Adding insult to injury, it was this same son who announced quite loudly and excitedly in church one Sunday not long ago, "Mama...you have lots of sparkly hairs!" Thanks a lot.

Which was why I was there to begin with.

Seriously, I was so embarrassed I wanted to dye.

And die. But only after the aforementioned son pulled half a dozen spinning stunts like this one while at the salon:



Apparently cake doughnuts and vanilla milk from Starbucks (which I had bribed him with earlier to sit still) had gone straight to his bloodstream, resulting in hair salon gymnastics, pulled cords, and fallen hair styling implements.

The stylists were all very sweet, and brought out paper and markers hoping to save their salon for him to draw.

Which kept him busy for a while. Three or four minutes at least.

The cars and action figures I had in different parts of my purse were each cast aside after about ten minutes.

Which left a considerable amount of time to contend with such antics.

Why, oh, why and I thought it a good idea to bring him along? And why did I get him Starbucks and not some happy meal with a toy?

Anyway, so I'm sitting through the whole process, trying to keep a close eye on the boy by playing endless games of "I Spy", while sitting beneath that brain-cooking, hair dye 'setting' whole-head hair dryer and flipping through some hairstyle magazines...when I was overcome by the smothering heat.

Heat which caused me to toss aside the hairstyle book and say to myself, "Nah...I think I'll just explain to the stylist what I want. They never get it just like the pictures anyway."

I think the hair dye must have had some instantaneous affect on my own blood stream or the fumes from the dye were getting to my brain, because I actually felt confident in my ability to explain the look I was going for to her verbally. There are dozens of celebrities wearing longish layers, after all.

That I'd overheard a couple of other stylists sidle up and ask if she could do their hair when their shifts were over at various points while under the dryer seemed to speak well of her ability.

Now my hair grows super-slow. It's taken a couple of years worth of those trims (you know, the ones which are supposed to help it to grow longer) to finally get past my shoulders, and the last thing I wanted was for her to cut off any length.

She explained that with my texture of hair, she'd probably use a razoring technique to get rid of the split ends and give a little more volume and better blending for the layers.

It was then I took note of her own beautiful medium length style and her impeccable taste in clothing, and decided that I trusted her implicitly.

After shampooing and conditioning my freshly dyed hair, she asked me a few pertinent questions to be sure we were on the same page, and got to work.

When she finished, I noted that the front had shaped up rather nicely.

It wasn't until she handed me the mirror and spun me around for a look at the sides and the back that I recognized the celebrity she'd apparently been going for:



No, not her...him!

David Cassidy of The Partridge Family fame.

Though the lyrics immediately popped into my mind, I couldn't say "I think I love you" and I certainly couldn't bring myself to "C'mon get happy...". Because I was neither.

Because she had done such a great job with the dyeing, I couldn't bring myself to let on that I wasn't happy with the cut. I plastered on a smile and resigned myself to a future of ponytails.

I still feel a bit put out that I now have 1970's man hair! Couldn't she at least have gone more the direction of Farrah Fawcett?

Seriously...no matter how I style it, and no matter how much product I use...within about an hour...I look just like David Cassidy.





I know 'retro' is in, but c'mon... feathered hair?

**Sigh**

I'm so done with trying to achieve a celebrity style.

Never quite works out for the way I expected.

Oh, and as it turns out, "I Spy" worked quite well for entertaining him for the rest of our time there. In fact, they even gave Judah a helium balloon for being such a "good boy".