do I look like I want pain?

Okay, so I went to get my hair done today. Yes, done. I mean cut and coloured. Woo!

Don't get too excited. The colour is just a nicer brown - richer than my normal ashen brown. (or does it look grey?) I've always thought that in certain lights my hair looks grey, but it REALLY IS BROWN.

My hairdresser confirmed it, calling it an "ash" brown. She said that because my family doesn't have any "reds" in the genes, that for the rest of them who are mainly blond, it doesn't show up, but because I got the dark hair, it's an ashy dark.

Nice.

But don't worry mom and dad, I won't hold it against you two. I'm okay with ash. Really, I am.

So today, I went with a nice, slightly darker, slightly warmer, slightly deeper brown.

I went into the salon with an open mind, as I usually do. I often battle between being one of those people who the hairdresser secretly rolls their eyes at, the client who's demanding this and that, with no concept of hair design.

"I want it long enough to tie back, but short enough that it's off the shoulders. I want it dark, but not so dark that I look pale. I want it layered, but not so that I look like I have a mullet."

I actually said that last one to her today, and she didn't laugh. I wasn't sure if I said something completely taboo or something. If anyone knows whether mentioning the "m" word to a hairdresser is a no-no, do let me know.

So, yes, I battled between being one of "those" clients, and really wanting a hairdo that looked good on me. The main problem being that I don't know what hairdo looks good on me. Curly hair - it's a challenge. Am I right people?

So in I went, and down I sat. She's such a lovely person, my hairdresser. She's got a lot to talk about so it's never boring or awkward. She mixed up the dye and chopped off a small length of the bottom of my hair after I explained the type of cut I wanted.

As she painted my hair with her little paintbrush, she chattered about her husband who was driving her up the wall, asking her to call their mechanic and urge them to finish up the work on their car as early as possible.

When my whole head was painted up and sopping with dye, the phone rang. She ran over and answered it, and I could tell it was the mechanic from words like "front brakes", "ignition" and "HOW MUCH???". When she was done, she came back, grabbed a big plastic comb (the worst enemy of one who has curly hair) and started yanking it through my hair.

"He said it's going to be 800 dollars! I can't believe it!" She hollered, ripping through my locks.

I braced myself, holding on to the chair rails underneath my apron. It was all I could do to keep from screaming.

"It's way too expensive! I can't believe it's that much!!!" RIIIIP, YAAAANK, RIIIIIP.

Mercy. Mercy! It's combed already! Mercy!!

It went on for quite a while. I'm not sure if she went into a daze thinking about the money or what, but my hair was well combed after the first few yanks and yet she continued to put me through the torture until I was nearly scalped.

She finished, tied the hair onto the top of my head with a clip, threw a plastic bag over it, and threw a towel around my neck. Then, much to my relief, I was sent to sit under one of the heat helmets.


I just made that name up. I don't know what they're called, but I figure "heat helmet" is fairly appropriate.

I couldn't have been more happy, sitting there in the warmth, resting my poor sore scalp, sipping a hot cup of delicious coffee, and reading up on the latest celebrity gossip. Aaaaaah....zzzzzz

When it was time to wash my hair, I was drowsy and had all but forgotten the pain of the comb. I got a nice head massage in the sink (okay, so she was just washing my hair - but it feels really nice!!) and then the nerves set in.

I sat in the chair, facing the mirror, hoping for the best. This was always the scary part. The haircut. EEEP! I haven't had many professional haircuts, you see. I grew up with my mom just trimming my hair, and so I never went to a salon until I was in my early 20's.

My first visit was a complete disaster. I sat down and placed all my hairdo hopes in the hands of a chattery flamboyant gay guy who was hilarious and made me laugh my head off (or should I say hair....HA!!) but who also had a real thing for the 80's. When he devulged that fact, I was rather frightened.

Nothing, however, could have been more frightening than what I saw in the mirror when he was done. It was a full-on mullet, frizzed to the max. He even gave me a "fan" (if you can remember those), but instead of it being sleek and stiff, it was frizzy and wouldn't stay where it was supposed to. If I held my head straight, it would stand straight up on end, so I had to hold my head tilted to the side.

I was devastated, and humiliated when the skinny, gorgeous receptionist looked at me and said, "Ooooooh! It's SOOO pretty!"

What on Earth are you talking about, girl?

So, yes. The cut makes me a little nervous. But it went okay. I actually employed a most brilliant tactic in order to keep myself from worrying too much. I just blurred my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening.

You may think, "You just blurred your eyes? Couldn't you still see?"

Um, have you seen how thick my glasses are? No, I couldn't see.

And as a tactic of complete and utter avoidance, it worked!

The end product is pretty nice, except for the odd styling she did. But that's always the case. I'm not a hairdresser, and don't normally style my hair the same way that a hairdresser would, so when a real one does it, I feel like I have hair fit for the red carpet. Big, bouncy and stiff.

And after all this, I don't yet have a photo to post. I'll post one as soon as my hair dries from the after-salon wash and styling. Until then, stay safe, keep out of the cold, and beware of distracted hairdressers!