I tortured myself today. Spent three and a half hours in a salon getting my hair colored. I got tired of people calling it "white" when clearly it was "platinum." I should know it wasn't white, as I had spent every third week frying it with cheap natural blonde dye. Before I decided to jump this shark, I had tried something else to get me through my mid-life crisis, shearing off over six inches and getting the mop styled. That didn't do it so I proceeded to the next step -- spend money and have a professional colorist dye it with a decent hair product, instead of my half-assed hatchet job with the usual $2.99 box of bleach.
It was supposed to take an hour and half. It didn't. Like a bad painted wall, my mutant "white" hair had to be primed with something called filler so the color would take. I picked a color that I thought would be brown with just a hint of red. A red color filler was painted on first. And then on the hottest day of the year, I sat under a heat dryer so the color would take. On my way back from the sink I saw my reflection and gasped at the Bozo the clown color. I was assured that was not going to be the color of my hair. "Don't panic, that's just the filler."
Upon inspection after blow drying it, the head colorist stopped by and determined that some parts of my hair took the filler better than others. So it had to be refilled again. Back under the dryer. Back to the sink. Pass the mirror. Deeper gasp.
After blow drying it a second time now the actual color was put in. In the bowl it was a lovely shade of green. "Don't panic, that's not the actual color." The colorist covered my roots first, then put me back under the dryer for ten minutes. She had to work quick to brush the rest of the color in so it would be even. "You have so much hair." I told her she should be glad she didn't do it last week when I had six more inches. Finally it was done. Was it the color I picked? Nope. Did it look good? According to all the stylists it did. "Is that the woman with the white hair?" It was platinum, platinum, damn it! "You look twenty years younger?" Really? After all the time I spent here I feel twenty years older. The young colorist asked nervously how I liked it. She was already two clients backed up and such a nice girl. I told her it looked fine. And in the salon lighting it looked okay. Frankly, at that point my sugar level was sinking, my nicotine level had plummeted and I began to think it was five o'clock somewhere. I needed to get outta there asap so I paid, tipped and bolted.
For the life of me I cannot understand women who spend hours weekly in salons getting their hair, nails, feet or whatever done. I've been told they like getting "pampered." To me it's like more like getting "assaulted." I don't like to be touched by strangers. I don't like the smell of salons. I don't like sitting under hair dryers. I don't like my head tilted back in a sink with water dripping down my back. And I feel so vulnerable sitting on display in the open with mirrors showing every blemish and pound of fat surrounded by thin women with perfect nails, makeup and hair who look better first sitting down in the chair than I do after getting out of it hours later.
When I hit the sunlight I knew the color was not what I had envisioned. It's too red with streaks of red. I did not get highlights but they have appeared anyhow. After sitting in the car looking in the rear view mirror I realized why they didn't bother with taking the "after" picture as they did take a "before" one. I finally got out and headed inside hoping no one would notice. Ha! My son's friend was the most honest, "What did you do? Man, it looks freaky." My son said, "It'll take some getting used to." My daughter said, "It doesn't look bad at all. You don't like it. Give it a day or two. You'll like it when you style it yourself." My dog hid under the bed. My husband's not home yet. Better run and get a big bottle of wine.
Since phase one and two didn't help my mid-life crisis I wonder if the next phase will be buying a muscle car, or a convertible.