I know you’re just dying to know, so here: I ruined my hair.
Remember this from yesterday in regard to taking the plunge? “Is it possible that tonight I will ruin a perfectly good thing? Yes, yes it is.” (Jackie Baker, October 26, 2011: pre-ruined hair)
Or perhaps this charming picture of what I thought I could expect from such a venture –>
Well I guess you could say it all pretty much came out as feared. Except I don’t look like a dog. Not my face, anyway. …I don’t think.
My appointment last night was at 7:30. At 6:30 I got a call asking if I could come in earlier, so I aimed for 7pm and made it there by 6:45 because I’m awesome. After I sat there for only 5 minutes, the manager came over and explained that my stylist was running behind. Why did you call me and ask me to come earlier if she’s running behind?, I asked. Someone called you and asked you to do that?, He said.
This is never a good sign.
He proceeded to explain that I could have another stylist work with me. She’s a more “senior consultant” he said, but he would charge me the same price. I told him the whole reason I was there was because the night before, the other girl cut my hair and we talked about color. I came back specifically at a time she was available so I was wary to go with someone else. He told me he’d supervise my coloring himself.
Getting the manager to supervise with a “more senior consultant” seemed like a fair shake so I thought what the heck, why not. (Note: Wrong. Totally wrong.)
When it comes to hair advice, the more is not the merrier. Five minutes later I was seated in the chair with four different stylists huddled around me, talking about how beautiful my natural color was. One even said, you’re not getting that colored are you?! The correct answer should have been No. No I’m not, followed by walking out the door.
I told them I used to be more of a redhead and over the years, I’ve kind of morphed into a dishwatery blonde that I don’t prefer. I wanted a few highlights to bring out the red in my hair, I wanted it to look natural, and I wanted it to be subtle. They all agreed – I made a great redhead, and I should return to it.
I could reenact in my sleep what happens to stylists when they look at the back of my head and see the huge blonde chunk that runs down it. It’s the same thing every time. First, they assume it’s a weird dye job by me. Then they check the roots and see that there aren’t any. Then they ask me what’s up with it and I explain I was born with it. I get too detailed sometimes and explain that it’s a matter of genetic co-dominance, much like when you see a horse with spots.
Then they geek out.
Which I really appreciate. It’s nice. It’s something interesting about me and I appreciate them making me feel special. But last night, this discovery led to an all-around consensus that I should highlight blonde like this chunk. I told the cluster of people around me that I really prefer red and that the blonde would have to be very subtle and only around my face.
2.5 hours later, everyone who chimed in was gone and I was left in the chair with my stylist at closing as she roughed through my hair with her fingers, trying to blow dry it as fast as possible so she could leave. As my hair dried and came to light, it was obvious that they decided to go with their plan and not mine. And since she started at the left side of my head and worked around to the right, there was a huge, platinum blonde streak running right down the side of my face, which leads a gradual and noticeable fade all the way around my head. It was a stripey, skunky strangeness from which I could not recover for another 6 weeks.
I was devastated.
I told her I expected it to be more red and that there was a looooot of blonde. I told her I felt more like a blonde than a redhead. I told her I was having trouble adjusting to the shock of the blonde. I told her lots of things, when I really should have just told her I wanted to cry. It looked a lot like skunk stripes. Little baby skunk stripes. And when the manager was speaking with me, he confirmed three different times that I wanted to be red, I wanted it to be natural, and I didn’t want stripes.
I’m not sure what he did with that information. I think he communicated it to my stylist via paper cup and string.
I ponied up too many of my hard-earned American dollars, and walked out of the salon with an ample amount of wetness to my eyes. I had just wasted a lot of money to feel worse about myself. I loved my hair the day before. I had a new cut with a little bit of movement and a subtle change. And even my awesome blow out from that evening was ruined by last evening’s half-inspired styling.
Supposedly, I have two weeks in which to request an adjustment for free.
This bus shelter advertisement mocked me on my way home. I’ll be calling today. ♣