Remembering a Bad Hair Day

I'm such a sporadic blog-poster. I'm pregnant, and I'm tired.

But reading my friend JoAnna's post today (see the link to My Glamorous Life on the right - I'm too lazy to figure out how to link it right now) made me think about a similar situation I had a few years back.

We were living in Jackson, Mississippi for a short stint, and among many other miserable things about living there, one was that I had yet to find a good hair stylist to call my own. It was summer and we were poor and so I decided to try and highlight my own hair with one of those at-home kits. It came with a special streaking wand and everything. No harm in trying, right? I think you can see where this is going . . .

So I ended up with orange streaks in my hair. Very orange and not at all to be mistaken for natural-looking summer highlights. I started freaking out, not only that we didn't really have the $$ for me to go to a professional but also that I didn't know who to call. I was freaking out, so I called George at work. His coworker, a girl, was like, Oh, I have this great lady you can go to and it won't be too expensive. So I made an appointment for the next day.

Her name was Bobbie and her place was in a Kroger shopping center. I should have never walked in the door. But once I did, I was trapped. I took one look at the place and I swear I almost walked out, except that I was immediately greeted by a woman in a matching T-shirt and COTTON BICYCLE SHORTS combo. Bobbie. I almost had a panic attack. It's one thing if a person actually wants to put on a pair of cotton bicycle shorts and walk out into the world -- more power to him/her -- but I do not want them anywhere near my hair. But being the polite Southern girl that I am, I did not run out of there screaming. It was two hours of misery. I tried to not hyperventilate as the man "stylist" next to me, wearing a partially see-through shirt and sporting white, bleached blond tips, worked on a lady who smoked as he colored her hair. And so my hair was colored dark brown to cover the streaks. And she charged me $60.



I cried. George tried not to laugh. I wanted to punch him. He told me it wasn't that bad, even though he didn't recognize me when I first saw him. I went home and washed it five times to try and get some of the color to fade. Soon after, I went to the nicest salon I could find and spent $100 on highlights.


Soundtrack: Paolo Nutini, "Jenny Don't Be Hasty"