and I have the hair to prove it!
Finally made it up to a salon where my friend works on Friday. I had about 3 months of gray showing, and it was time to do something. Plus, having a professional cut only once in the past two years was starting to show on my hair as my “experimenting” showed my lack of training.
So, I knew they would cut a lot off but I was open to the experiment. My friend did the coloring and then another stylist came to do the cutting. I liked what she was doing, although at one point, she measured four inches of hair at the back of my head, and that’s all she left (I had about a foot before that).
Then she started twisting the hair and making chopping cuts in them and my hair piled up on the floor. Interesting technique, I thought. I knew that’s what you paid for in a salon like this…razoring, slicing, chopping, thinning, twisting and chunking.
After she shook out my hair, and the hair that was no longer a part of me fell to the floor, I thought the cut looked pretty good. Her avant-garde techniques had rendered me a new woman!
“Shall we let your hair dry naturally?”
I agreed, because having naturally curly hair, I knew anything she did would never be as good as what I could do at home. In fact, back in the States, I often would leave the hairdresser with wet hair if we didn’t straighten it.
She put me under a dryer and I saw my lovely frizzy hair appear, like I knew it would. I chatted a little with my friend but I couldn’t turn my head as I had a dryer in my face on both sides. In fact, it was starting to get quite hot under there.
My cheeks were getting flushed, and I started thinking it was almost time to go. After all, it was over 2 hours that I had been at the salon.
My stylist returned to get a look, and she seemed satisfied. The heat torture was removed, and then she looked at me critically. Off in flash, she returned with a big bottle full of purple stuff. She put a big glob of this in my nearly dry hair, and scrunched, scrunched, scrunched.
Ok, the mass was getting bigger. She stared at my hair, or possibly herself in the mirror. Ok, that’ll do it. I gave her a closed-lipped smile of encouragement. I’m happy, it looks great, I’m ready to go.
“Sono belli, eh?” Oh yes, very beautiful.
“Aspetta…” I saw some IKEA-flourescent-light go off over her head. She brought back another product, something I recognized as a root-lifter, and sprayed some into my free-floating, crunchy mass.
Then, she brought out the diffuser. Too little, too late.
She applied it at its highest setting, ironically overpowering the diffusing purpose. Then, she told me to bend over (mind you, I’m still sitting in the salon chair) and she skillfully applied it my under-roots.
She turned off the hairdryer and I sat up slowly, combing the hair back from my face. I was getting light-headed from all the heat and lack of water. My cheeks were bright red.
“No, no no!” I looked at my stylist, surprised. What did I do now?
“Put your head back down and whip it up with a snap!” I looked at her, waiting for her to add, “like in Charlie’s Angels.”
She’s really taking a piss now.
I leaned over and whipped my head up. Stars appeared before my eyes…then cleared as I saw my rat’s nest benefit from the “added volume” from the head flip.
She still wasn’t satisfied, and reached for one more product. In my haze, I thought I saw a bottle of AquaNet and a comb as she teased it up, up, up…
Finally, she seemed happy. And so did I.
I crinkled up my eyes, and my smile and nod were well-practiced. My friends would have recognized the “I’m going to kill her” look.
My friend gave me a sympathetic look, but I knew it wasn’t her fault.
I paid, and though I tried to smooth down my hair as much as I could to save face but without making it obvious to the stylist I was “adjusting” her creation.
I called my friend in that area, laughing…”How did it go?” she said.
“I have something to show you…”
When I showed my best friend a picture of the hair, she said, “Is that a picture of you from junior high?”
PS: No appearances were truly harmed in this story. Pride, maybe.