Black(Brunette) Friday...The Saga Continues

Years ago, when I was in college, I used to walk into hair salons and say, "Do whatever you think will look good."

This was not one of my better ideas. I might as well have said, "Make me look like a freak." Some of my more memorable looks included a punk rocker (minus the safety pin through the nose), the bride of Frankenstein, and Peter Pan (which may have worked for Mary Martin and Kathy Rigby, but on me only brought back traumatic memories of childhood haircuts by my mom.).

Have gotten older and wiser (?), I now try to be as specific as possible with my descriptions. Unfortunately, this does not always work out so well for me either.

Six months ago, the guy who bore the awesome responsibility for keeping me blond for the past five years moved, so I needed to find someone new. After much surfing the net, pestering everyone I knew and wallowing in angst, I took the plunge.

First, the root touch-up was too dark (oh, goody, let's make the gray even easier to spot), then, I became Jean Harlow's twin (harder to spot the gray, but coupled with my skin tone, I was getting mistaken for an albino). When I asked for some contrast, I became a honey blond (translation:an orange). Finally though, I was an acceptable shade of blond with only a few remnants of orange. Until last Friday.

In a moment of pure insanity, I asked for the removal of all "orange" color and a more "natural" multi-dimensional look. What I got was brunette with some blond hightlights that bordered on greenish. Natural perhaps for someone in a carnival sideshow, but not really what I had in mind.

After living with the results for the next twelve hours, I decided to cut my losses and call a new place to see if they could make me look human again (actually, it was Tim that was living with the results, and for some reason, he did not appreciate being married to a suicidal nutcase...go figure). I got an appointment for Monday evening, took a lot of deep breaths (along with contemplating buying a very large hat), and kept chanting,"this is not the end of the world(although I didn't really believe it) over and over. (Tim, meanwhile, started looking for cheap rates at local hotels.) I almost convinced myself too, until the phone rang Monday morning.

The perky receptionist at the salon was just calling to confirm that my appointment that night was for a "consultation" not color (apparently, she did not understand the severity of the situation and the thin thread my sanity was hanging by). After reducing her to a stammering mess (that will teach her for being so chipper when the world is coming to an end), I accepted an appointment for the following morning with a different colorist.

Tuesday morning, the phone rang again. Uh oh. Seems the new guy was sick, but they would be happy to palm me off on a third person, who apparently wasn't even important enough to have a name. Was this a joke, or was it the cosmos way of telling me I should stop fighting mother nature and become a brunette again? Never!

In desperation, I called the person who had done this horrible thing to me (something I swore never to do), and made an appointment for that afternoon.

This time, however, I was going in prepared. I pulled out a few photos from the past several months to show her what I did and did not want.

"Oh, sure," she nodded and smiled, "I can do that." Which is all asked for in the first place.

P.S. I am blond again (whew) with some darker "lowlights" that I am now willing to embrace, and Tim has cancelled his reservation at a nearby hotel.