I've been gray since August. When I had a little white mohawk, I grew fond of it, but it curled and fluffed into old lady gray with bits of white. At work I made funny jokes like, "when my hair grew back in after cancer it didn't have any bleach on it." So Ifinalllllly made an appointment with my stylist. Truthfully, she is my neighbor, and she walked past my house last weekend and I yelled from my porch, "Bleach my hair." I arrived at the salon. In salon-speak, which I never have understood, she explained that any real color will accentuate the spots of scalp not yet filled in by hair. Oh. Okay. So I asked in non salon language, "Can't I just have what I used to have?" The short answer was yes. But what I'd meant was blonde. Brightwhiteblonde. What she heard was: the color that lives under the gray. My natural color.
Make sense so far?
So, I leaned back, closed my eyes and waited for the magic to happen.
Or not. Turns out what lives beneath the old lady gray is a dark steely blonde, kind of like dishwater from cleaning camping pans. So, what I ended up with was an exact duplication of my darkest hair woven in between the gray. Steel blonde. She did a really nice job. She lives next door. Had I mentioned that?
So, after a rough night's sleep, I got up, drove to Target and bought a box of platinum dye for the absolute maximum lift. I got home, begged Nicole to help me -- this is her area, making people not feel like shit after stupid mistakes -- and she counseled me through the process. Midway, I had to take out the trash and who should be coming down her stairs? My sweet neighbor, Emily. I always thought her name was Abilene. Another story . Beings I was in a corner and visible, I was honest. "I couldn't hang with the dark ." She was so nice. "I would have done that for you." I assured her I knew that. I knew I got what I'd asked for. Only I'd asked in the wrong language.
My husband, who I now hate, says I look like a q-tip. I think I look better than gray. I just couldn't have gray hair. Not yet. If I'd come out looking like Asha, that would be one thing, but she's had white hair since she was five or something ridiculous.
So, my hair is blonde again. I will say that much. Exquisitely so. Now, instead of highlights, I need lowlights, but according to the specialists, I can't have them until tomorrow at the earliest. I'm learning the language of vanity.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
Well, I ran the full circle: fabulous (fake) color by "color specialist," to "just trim it please, I cant afford the color," to handing Ed the scissors and shutting my eyes (before and after), to this week, scheduling a visit to the funky cutter at the edge of town who maybe will know what to do with hair that's the color of an aging mouse. I wont change the color (once you quit that, it's hard to go back to the smell) but maybe she'll think of a style that is fitting -- meaning not godawful. Oh, I should note that our well water has too many minerals and so it really is like a dull aging mouse. All true.
Asha, find a purple shampoo. When I lived in Talent (remember the water?)I had a terrible orange stripe down the back.
Nina: How'd it turn out?
Post a Comment