Wouldn’t it be great if we all had (and could tolerate) one person in our lives who, in certain situations, was willing to intervene and be brutally honest so we would not end up looking like complete buffoons? For instance, if we are about to make a huge mistake (like marrying a known serial killer) or we choose to wear an outfit that makes us look like a sausage with a string tied in the middle or if we have a fantasy involving hazardous chemicals (such as bleach), these are all really good times when this person would come in handy. I recall one bad decision in particular involving chemicals where I wish somebody had spoken the truth and held an intervention on my behalf…instead I had to hit rock bottom and spend a week looking like a clown (literally) before I would give up an unrealistic fantasy.
Now I don’t know if it is every brunette’s fantasy to be a blond, but it was certainly mine for a very long time. Many years ago, ready to bid adieu to my brown locks and say oh-la-la to my new blond bombshell self, I made an appointment with a hair salon whose prices were about as high as the down payment on a car. It was my first time at this salon, and upon hearing what I wanted, the salon owner took on the task, assuring me she could make my fantasy a reality while running her fingers through my hair assessing the situation. She explained the process required to go from dark brown to platinum blond (muttering about bleach this, lift that, blah, blah, blah). Even though I was barely listening, because all I could think about was how I went in looking like Mary Tyler Moore and was going to come out looking like Marilyn Monroe, I am positive she never tried to talk me out of this dreadful decision. On the contrary, she assured me she could do it and I believed her. Throughout the day, she applied one application after another and I was plopped underneath hair dryers, taken out, plopped back under and taken out again (kind of like basting a turkey). Finally, after eight long hours, I was rinsed for the last time and seated in her chair facing the mirror. When the towel was removed from my head, my blond bombshell fantasy had turned into a living nightmare. My hair was not blond…oh, no, far from it…it was a vivid hue of reddish-orange…even more reddish-orange than Lucille Ball and nowhere near as beautiful…Lucy, you got some ‘splaining’ to do! As my orange safety cone colored hair was dried, the owner commented on how they were getting ready to close and I would have to come back the next day for her to complete the process. Totally in shock, I nodded okay and like an idiot paid her in full for that horrible mess of hair. Though distraught and hysterical, I somehow managed to make it home.
I honestly cannot remember much about the rest of the day other than sitting in the foyer at the bottom of my stairs bawling my eyes out, my clown hair covered with a red bandana, my scalp burned to a crisp. My daughter, Kailey, found me sitting there wailing and pointing at my orange head. Kailey says she recalls the moment when I removed that bandana and revealed, according to her, “the worst orange hair I had ever seen”. She was a little girl at the time and while I know she was laughing on the inside, she was smart enough to know any audible laughter would be the second worst decision of the day, so she tried to console me instead, to no avail. For hours, I sat there wailing with that bandana over my head, blubbering like a lunatic (probably due to all of the bleach having seeped into my brain). I never called or returned to that fancy-schmancy salon in order for them to complete the process (I was younger and far less confrontational than I am now – I would have no problem loudly voicing my displeasure today).
For the next week, I was forced to go to work and in public looking like a clown until I was able to find a new hairstylist with the balls to help me out (most of them simply shouted NO WAY after taking one look). His name was Mickey and I will never forget him because he did what nobody else had the guts to do…Mickey gave me a stern lecture on why I should never again try to be a platinum blond and transformed me back into a brunette (thanks, Mickey, wherever you are). I have only attempted to go blond one time since then and I got there too with the help of a stylist who knew what she was doing and understood the consequences of making promises she could not keep…Kailey. I like to think Kailey decided to become a hairstylist after witnessing my orange hair mess wanting to prevent it from happening again to me and other blond wannabes like me (well, that and the time I accidentally cut off one of her eyebrows trying to trim her bangs when she was a toddler). Today, I am back to being a brunette having learned my lesson the hard way and deciding that brunettes can have just as much fun as blonds.
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