About a week ago, I finally broke down and went to the gay hairdresser. What can I say? Every other week there was an article about this guy in the newspaper talking about what a fabulous job he does. Also, I’m a weak, weak woman.
My appointment was for 9am, but I actually made it there before he did. While I waited, I checked out the brightly colored graffiti on the walls and dicked around with an etch-a-sketch they had sitting on a side table. If you’re wondering what kind of salon is decorated like a back alley in NYC and gives people toys from the 60’s to play with, let me assure you that is exactly the kind of salon that would make a 30-something year old woman feel like she’s in desperate denial about her age. The place is advertised as ‘Glam Rock’ and after spending the morning there, I had to fight the urge to slip on a pair of too tight muffin top jeans and attend a rave so I could leer at little boys 10 years my junior.
My hairdresser showed up in a pair of striped leggings under ripped up jean shorts and he sported a green goatee. Obviously, the newspapers were right and he knows a thing or two about fashion.
“So what are we doing today?” he lisped cheerfully.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “Just make it look different. My hair grows pretty quickly, so even if it looks awful, I won’t get upset. So just grab a bottle of magical pixy dust from one of those drawers over there and use your imagination.”
“Hmm, different,” He mused, “Do you want to try a perm?”
“Actually, my hair doesn’t really hold a curl.” I answered, “I’ve gotten perms before and had to sit there while they doused my head in chemicals only to end up with bone straight hair the very next day. I’m not even exaggerating. It just falls out.”
“What about color?”
“You can try it. My hair doesn’t really hold color at all very well, either. It usually washes out in a week or two.”
“Do you wash it right when you get home?”
“No, I try to wait a few days.”
“Well, this time, go as long as you possibly can go without washing your hair. I’ll use something really good and hopefully it will hold.”
“Also, if you want me to make you look fabulous, you’re going to have to let do something about those eyebrows.”
About 2 hours later, my hair was cut, colored, and my eyebrows were waxed. And I have to admit, I looked…pretty good. In fact, I was so pleased with the results that I went home absolutely determined not to wash my hair for at least a week lest the entire thing rinse out completely causing me to waste damn near $300.
Lucky for me, I have pretty normal hair. So after a week, it wasn’t all that oily. Still, I was longing for a good, hot shower I could utterly relax in as opposed to hanging my head outside the stall like a goddamn moron. However, I was still apprehensive about rinsing out my spunky new color. After fighting an inner battle with myself, I decided to fill up a bathtub with warm water and ever so gently wet my hair. If all went well and my color triumphed in the tub, I would deem it ready to brave the hard spray of my shower head.
I set about executing my plan last night. Once the tub was filled, I sat in it for a minute or two so I could get up the nerve to lay back. Finally, I eased myself into position and let the warm water cover me like a blanket. Very carefully, I counted to 60. Then, I sat up, turned around, and looked at the damage.
Where my head had been was a cloud of dark yellow. (No, I did not dye my hair yellow. It just looked yellow as it rinsed out) I muttered, “Son of a bitch!” and grabbed a towel off of the hook. Frantically, I started patting my head dry. As I gently squeezed the moisture from my hair, more streaks of mustard yellow ran down my body and into the tub.
After a few minutes, I got the ‘bleeding’ to stop. But by that time, all the water in the tub had turned that very dark shade of yellow. I was just about to unstop the water, turn on the shower and rinse off when a delightfully evil plan popped into my head.
Making my voice as quivery as I could, I called for my husband. “Can you come here for a second? I need you.”
“Sure,” he called back, “What’s wrong?”
“Just come here!”
My husband casually popped his head into the bathroom, saw me sitting in what looked like a bathtub full of urine and shrieked, “OH MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
I collapsed into gales of laughter. Unable to speak, I just shook my head.
Realizing my joke, my husband clutched his heart and said, “Oh God, it’s just your hair. I was about to call an ambulance. I was thinking, ‘How is it possible for her to pee that much?’”
For the record, most of my color remained intact. I’m going to give it another week before I try to wash it again. If it rinses out next week, I’m just going to give up the dream of keeping my hair this color because I cannot go more than 2 weeks without washing my hair. I simply can’t.
With that said, if it does rinse out, you better believe I’m going to try to scam someone else into thinking I peed the tub again because my husband’s reaction was just too funny for words.
I am so fucking immature.
- The Ultimate Luxury
- A Memorable Sort of Psychosis
- Searching For Tapeworms
- A Christmas Irony
- There’s No Such Thing as Individuality