I have great hair. Correction, I HAD great hair. I had that hair. You know, the hair that people would chase after you for to find out who did your hair. I also had the gal that booked out solidly and wasn’t taking new clients. She is that good. She is worth every penny I ever paid her. For the better part of a decade she took me through every crazy whim I had and made sure I pulled it off. It was a fabulous relationship. She lives in Denver and I now live in Los Angeles. I moved and the single most traumatic loss has been been my hair stylist. My besties will understand and forgive me for that last statement.
On Thursday I got a hair cut and color (I was referred by someone). The color was terrible and the cut was not great. By terrible I mean… this is what the top of my head looked like when I got home from my appointment:
On Friday I made this poor woman change her life around to fix my hair. I explained the pattern and that unless she took the top portion of my hair separate and went horizontally I would end up with dark roots in that area no matter what she did. I told her exactly how to do it and she actually said, “It doesn’t work when I try doing it a different way, I’m doing it my way.” That should have been my cue to stand up and walk out right then and there, but she is so nice. I like her. She is sweet. I am dumb. dumb dumb dumb.
You’d think living in the land of glamor and glitz that my first hair color and cut might not be so bad. In fact, maybe I’d make a connection with someone who understood my connection to my hair. Someone who understands that I am a ponytail mom most day but that I’m a girly gal and enjoy my hair – my hair is a part of me. For cryin’ out loud the name of my blog is a tribute to my hair.
One bad ‘do cannot shake me. I realize that I am beautiful inside and out, blah blah blah, as so many of my fab FB and Twitter friends have said. While it isn’t really me, this is the lovely layered feathery ‘do I’m sporting right now….
I mean, come on, friends! I am not shallow enough to think that I am my hair. Actually, maybe I am.
I’ll be that girl with the 80’s hair sportin’ 50 shades of some wack color chunks chasing after you to bribe you with whatever amount of money it takes for you to give me your hair gal’s number. Trust me, I’ll take it from there and she’ll never even know where I got the number.