The hair catastrophe:
I went back to the same stylist on Thursday, after wearing my hair in a ponytail all week at work. I explained that I was not fond of having what appeared to be hair half-dipped in bleach with random highlight streaks. I told her that I was skeptical that it could be fixed without just dying all my hair the same color. She reassured me that she could fix it by adding more high lights and some low lights. I desperately wanted to run away. The only thing that kept me in her chair was the thought of having to endure another day with cringe-worthy hair.
The stylist wrapped my hair in foil and chemical smelling paste then left me to sit in complete anxiety and near-panic for half an hour. I kept glancing at the clock every five minutes thinking, "what if it's in too long? Is now too long?" I picked up a People magazine and tried to distract myself with Hollywood gossip while the fate of my hair hung in the balance, subject to the whim and power of some god-awful smelling chemicals.
The stylist came back, declared that enough time had passed, and directed me to the sink where I swear she spent ten minutes just washing my hair while I was staring at the ceiling holding my breath, Then she brought me back to the salon chair and faced me away from the mirror while she slowly blow-dried and styled my hair. I almost scream "Just let me see it!" except I didn't want to know what kind of craziness I might find sitting on top of my head.
Finally, after a hair eternity, she turned me around for the big reveal. And it was PERFECT. Absolutely perfect. Almost worth five days of hair shame and embarrassment.
These photos don't really do it justice, but it's all I got for now.
The streaks in this below picture are not really this drastic, but you get the idea.
*Yes, I realize this is a total first world problem and that hair is not very high on the scale of life-and-death importance. But, that's so much easier to say when you're hair doesn't look like a teenage girl's bizarre fashion experiment.
Also, I feel extra fabulous right now thanks to a celebratory pedicure date with some friends this weekend. Thank you friend for being born in January! This was maybe my second pedicure ever. I decided that I do NOT like people poking my toe cuticles (ow) or filing my toe nails (feels too weird- I'm strictly a nail clipper). And when the technician started cheese grating my callouses off, I squirmed and flinched and made horrible faces. But now my toes are so happy and summery which is perfect considering we've endured nearly three weeks of grey rain and drizzle up here in the Pacific Northwest. And the massage chair was so amazing that it took much cajoling for me to finally pry my butt-cheeks away.
I keep wanting to strip off my shoes and socks and show random strangers my happy toenails but I don't think that would go over too well.