The greens and golds and purples of the clipper sails that divide the beauty stalls were not as vibrant as they would be out on a glistening lake or an undulating ocean. That should have been my first clue. Nor were the scents as appealing as the salty sprays of the sea, or of nature at all. Instead, hairspray. Shampoo. Chemicals. And the stylist on duty? Her hair was unhealthy and unstyled: dull locks hanging lifeless, topped by a teased shelf. Her calling card.
It was an omen, and I missed it.
I’m trying my best not to mention the name of the salon. But, the thing is, I was trying to save money. With my senior discount, I could get my quarterly trim for $10.00. Yes, I confess. I was cheating on my expensive stylist at Skye Salon, but for the price difference, and just once or twice, did it really matter?
Yes. Yes it did. This is what I looked like when I went in. Just like my Facebook picture. I should’ve come out looking pretty much the same, right? How hard is it?
She used all the right words, she really did: blending, layers, styling. So imagine my surprise when she pulled out the comb and started ratting my hair. Ladies, when was the last time you teased your hair? For me, 1967. And imagine my surprise when she said she was finished and held up the mirror. It was just a longer version of her own hairstyle! I gulped.
I bore a striking resemblance to a Dr. Seuss tree.
I present these lookalikes with only a trace of hyperbole.
Well, I tried to live with it for a few weeks. I flattened the top, curled other parts, did everything I could to be able to live with this 1980s’ backwoods hairstyle. I even tried do some cutting repairs myself, but I have to tell you, Maggie playing with scissors is not a pretty picture. It only got worse. Finally, I called Danielle, my stylist from Skye, and with my tail between my legs, walked in capped in this frightful disaster of a do and begged her to “just fix it.”
“Oh dear,” says she. “It looks like someone forgot to connect the parts.” Whatever that means. Danielle connected the parts and told me to come back in four-to-six months when it had grown out sufficiently for her to really do something.
So now I look eerily like Ramona Quimby.
Please don’t bother trying to make me feel better. I appreciate your efforts, but it’s futile. Hats and paper bags are my only recourse.
It’s been hair-raising, pure and simple, but in a few months, this will all be water under the bridge. I hope.
copyright 2015 Maggie McCann Pike
Maggie McCann Pike
- IMPOVERISHED ON GOODRICH
- INSIDE JOKES