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29 August 1998 |
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I hate the whole fucking hair salon experience. The lights are always bad and the costs are always too high. Every time I go to one I feel depressed, swearing never to go again. I always come out demoralized and broke. When I explained to El Prez the plans for my hair, he said, "Please will you go to a salon and have it done? For my peace of mind?" Sigh. He pointed out that the people he had in mind were lesbian and might know someone to fix me up with. Heh, what a guy. Not that I want fixing up, but I relented and made an appointment to have my head evaluated for the upcoming treatment. When I got there, it was apparent that this place was far outta my league. Very large, very fancy. Tromp l'oeil effects all over the walls. This proved to be one of those places that have people whose sole function is to shampoo. My hair pro proved to be a delightful woman with curly black hair and impressive tattoos on her legs, as well as several tastefully done facial piercings. She quickly pronounced my hair ready for the dye without any bleaching, and explained in detail the contraindications, adding that a highlight job might add some lovely texture effects. It turned out that she had a cancellation this very day and we could get right to it. How this woman manages to take care of so many people at once, I do not know, but there were several projects undergoing her supervision. She put this blue stuff in choice locks of my hair, wrapping them in aluminum foil and timing them, before handing me off to the shampooer. This had no visible effect, but that was to be expected. All the stuff really did was prepare those locks to take the dye in a different way than the rest of my head. Then came the Punky Colour - Plum. The stuff was incredibly messy and falling strands made quite a botch of my face and neck. I got lots of remarks from spectators. Once the time was up, I was handed off to a different shampooer, who was very closely supervised by my hair pro, as this product is one that doesn't get used in that salon much. The color never really gets finished being rinsed away, so it's a bit tricky knowing when to stop. My shampooer stopped a bit too soon, and another was called in to re-shampoo me. Several people got a turn at scrubbing the purple bits off my face and neck, and it all finally came off. Then my pro asked if I'd like to dry my hair myself, since it's a bit silly to charge me extra for her to do it. It had been awhile since I last used a blowdryer, but what the hell. Her wife (her term) arrived at about this point and was evaluating the progress. She had softly, subtly tricolored hair and blue glasses, as well as a delightful accent. She could see the effects of the highlighting and approved. I couldn't tell, myself. I looked old. The contrast between the dark purple and my stark forehead was formidable. It was rather lovely in the incandescent light of the bathroom, but terrible in the fluorescent light of the shop. Still, I made my polite goodbyes and headed to the desk, where I was relieved of a hefty portion of my paycheck. Yes, I was down. I felt ugly and poor. I rushed home and promptly gave myself bangs. That improved things a bit. Still dunno if it was worth the penny pinching I will have to do the rest of the month, though. Here's the result:  --Spring
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