“Oh dear! Oh Shit! Oh not good…”
“Jen, you’ve been my hairdresser for fifteen years, we have vacationed together, partied together and you are saying this when I am at my most vulnerable!?” Eyes closed, head tilted back into the shampoo sink I was helpless.
“We have a color malfunction here. This is going to take some doing…”
For those who didn’t grow up in the 60’s surrounded by images of blonde California Girls such as Christy Brinkley and Farrah Fawcett, you don’t know my pain. Brown-eyed and “blessed” with curly brown locks (not Chestnut, not fiery red) I was destined to hate my hair. I spent my twenties with it short, ignoring it’s existence; but have grown to rather enjoy hiding beneath it. We have since found a truce and I accept the fact that it is dry and porous, never sleek and cascading; more like springy and drifting.
Jen harrumphed and gently sat me upright. “Somehow, I’ve got no idea why, but for some reason, your hair is black.”
“I can live with dark, how dark?”
“Oh I didn’t say dark, I said BLACK as in you will look like Morticia from the TV show The Adamms Family!”
Appointments were canceled for the evening and Jen set to work coaxing my hair back to something a bit less harsh without damaging it. Co-workers and clients filtered out until it was just the two of us. I know, this all sounds so vain and mundane. We spent hours trying to fix something so random. But we talked, and laughed, and were able to make good use of the time just relating. The lesson was this; if you can’t afford to “waste” it every once in a while – you really can’t afford it. The it was time apportioned to plans. Those plans could not have been as satisfying as the hours spent being vulnerable, chuckling with a friend.
In case you are wondering how it all turned out? My hair is an autumn, burnt umber shade that will never be achieved again.