Cut and Colour

It's been a while since I got the last haircut. I don't often self-pamper and I find used to find salons to be foreign, uncomfortable zones of girliness that I'd stick away from as much as possible. I've come to enjoy looking and feeling good, meaning that I've started to embrace the salon thing. The idea of being pampered is also pretty damn foreign and I find it hard to take, though it is nice. I'm getting used to it.

My hair grows thick and quite quickly - according to my hairdresser it is "aggressive". It certainly asserts itself very forcefully and I decided to get it hacked off again this week end in order to conrol it's unruly behaviour. I was at the point of being past being glad to wear a hat and into the zone of getting the shits at the pieces that curled around the edges.

So Saturday morning at the hairdressers - hung over as per usual for a Saturday morning - and I told my hairdresser that I wanted blonde tips. We went even shorter with the cut than last time, which is okay for budget considerations but will take a while to get used to...

Proceeding on to the colouring - bleaching really, but this is where the story get's good. She combed the goop lightly through the top and left me with three crap magazines for forty-five minutes. I mean, thanks. I really wanted to read Girlfriend magazine. I really needed to know what my bikini personality is. I really wanted to know how to snag my favourite teenage boy crush of the moment ("Talk to him and let him know your feelings" was the advice).

She comes and checks progress and sets me off for another fifteen minute date with the heater thingy, and no magazine change. Reason: We don't want it to be yellow.

So allocated hell waiting period ends and young apprentice chicky washes my hair out. A feeling of foreboding starts to creep in when the other apprentice crowds over to the basin. Feeling gets very much worse when second apprentice asks my hairdresser - "What are you going to do?". I try to allay my fears with thoughts of "Maybe these people are learning, and need to ask questions like that"...

Bear in mind that I can't see any of this - I've got my head wedged in a basin and my legs pointed skywards on the recliner chair, not to mention the bitch of a hangover forcing me to squint... Hairdresser drops what she's doing and comes over to help. She abruptly disappeared and the two apprentices cleared out also. I took the opportunity to pull a bit of my hair into visual range. Fuck. It's bright. It's yellow. Okay. Hairdresser scurries out with a bowl of goop, paints it on and then sentences me to my magazine hell for another fifteen minutes without any explanation. Just a "Do you still have a headache? Sorry, we'll get you out of here soon."

It turns out that the original bleach goop just soaked all the way through and also went yellow. So they painted a colour over it to tone it down. Apparently the colour over it to tone it down. Apparently the colour will wash out over time, leaving the yellow mop. It doesn't look so bad now, and they didn't charge me at all, so even though I wasted an entire morning I feel I came out alright in the end.