So I had a little hair mishap over the Christmas holiday. My stylist Stuart once again agreed to devote an entire day to making my hair abnormally and delightfully purple now that I no longer face the threat of Mexican sun and salty ocean water.
Last time we did my hair, we learned that how much color you strip with the bleach really does matter in terms of color retention. We applied the bleach and continued checking the strands. I apparently have several very stubborn locks of hair that refused to submit to the lemon yellow the box recommends so we left the bleach on for an awfully long time.
Oopsie.
It never occurred to me that the bleach would completely fry the ends of my hair. And really, given the noxious fumes of it and the extraordinarily descriptive name of BLEACH it's really fucking obvious yet I failed to think of it.
So, upon washing it out, we discovered that my healthy hair had taken a zip line far far away and I was left with broken ends that begged for mercy. (The other hair trauma was that the base color was way more purple than I anticipated so the contrast between the two colors was barely noticeable.)
I did the humane thing and put the ends out of their misery by snipping them off. Except for one rather important thing - I am not a hairdresser. I am a personal trainer and as it turns out, the two professions do not have a lot in common.
So, it was time to see a professional. I made an appointment for a salon near my house to have it cut by a real deal hair person who hopefully knew what she was doing.
I met the keeper of my hair-fate, Jennae, at approximately 10:53 a.m. on Friday morning. She proceeded to call me "honey" and "sweetie" about 45 times in the next hour. Jennae probably had about 8 years on me which renders the whole honey/sweetie thing ENTIRELY inappropriate. If you have blue hair and haven't had your own teeth for ten or so years, you can probably get away with the honey/sweetie thing. You're pretty much a walking fossil and about to die anyway so I figure you can call me whatever you like.
On top of her annoying and inappropriate familiarity, she felt it necessary to mention several times that I really needed to "lay off the dye" and that I shouldn't attempt any more haircuts on my own.
REALLY!?!?! Really? She felt it necessary to mention this? Wow. Could the obvious train have run her down any faster? Thank you Jennae for bringing this to my attention. My real intent Friday morning was to waste an hour of my life with a dipshit like you giving me advice that I clearly don't need as I'm sitting in your goddamn chair to fix the things I fucked up. God, what would I do without sages like you in the world?
While I had been waiting for her, I had looked through a few hair magazines to give her an idea of styles I liked and directions I might like to go since we'd have to probably cut it quite a bit. I showed her a picture and she gave me every indication that her own bleach job hadn't permeated her skull and that she understood what I was looking for.
The haircut she gave me wasn't EVEN CLOSE to the picture. Not even a little. I was rather stunned when she handed me the mirror to see how short she'd made the back. All rather short layers. I don't know what to do with short layers. I can't round-brush worth a shit without a third arm and if I had a third arm, I probably wouldn't be wasting it on my hair, if you know what I mean.
Upon getting home, I decided that I hated my hair and I wouldn't be leaving the house for a couple of months and if I had to leave, I'd follow Michael Jackson's cue and cover myself up with a blanket. I was also PMSing which didn't help matters. (Note that you should never make any important decisions, judgements or phone calls under the influence of estrogen.)
I have since decided that dipshit Jennae actually gave me a pretty decent hair cut although I'm not sure if she could have accomplished that without the smug condescension of fixing a botched job of "home hair color" (which she actually said at one point to the neighboring stylist and client). What is even more amusing is that she thinks I will actually come back to her. I went ahead and let her think that. Live the dream, you know?
My haircut is okay, I think - it just wasn't what I wanted or what I was expecting. I've gotten lots of compliments on it so I guess it's not horrible. I'm still not entirely sure what to do with it and I was petrified to wash my hair yesterday because I wasn't sure if I could recreate hair magic on my own (it looked alright when I fixed it).
The moral of the story is that bleach actually does what you'd expect it to and if you leave it on too long, you may be compelled to pull a Britney Spears and shave your whole head (which I considered multiple times as I fought to comb through my blond-but-not-lemon-yellow mess). The other moral of the story is that Jennae will have quite the story to tell after I break into her house and assault her with home hair color and a very unskilled haircut... HONEY.
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