Shaky Egg

My zit is now as ugly as it is painful. Sigh. I haven’t had one of these in, I don’t know how long.

But I have the best hair ever!!! Yes, the black with white streaks was definitely pronounced ‘four years ago’ but I have black with more subtle blond that almost looks like silver or gray. I *love* it!

She left it long, but layered it up. Then she spent probably an hour styling it. [Fat chance I'll do that much work, *ever* on my own hair, but I can coast on good color and a good hair cut. That's how good she is.] I felt so loved up by the time I got out of there– three hours [and a hundred ten dollars, now you see why I haven't done this in so long, and I gather that's cheap for a really good style] later.
It’s not just about the great hair. It is also about the loving presence of this woman, running a small family business in a pretty darn small city (26K or so). She looks like one of those snobby pretty girls who would have been very mean in a small town high school, but she is so kind, accepting, sympathetic, and liberal. She’s actually letting people apprentice with her and work their way up now, and I can see that this nurturing, disciplining role suits her. I had the best time just talking to her today. I just sat in the comforting energy. She’s such a good girl. (She’s my age, but she’s just a good girl).

Words really can’t express my gratitude. It’s the little things.

counting the hours and minutes…

In the small town of my previous job was a hairdresser– or, I don’t know what she would prefer to be called. Anyway she’s a small businesswoman running a wonderful salon. She is creating cutting edge genius, (always age-appropriate of course, some of the coolest, most understated and classy gray hair East of the Mississippi comes out of her shop) in this little bitty podunk town. She was the architect of my dyed-black-with-white-streak of the days back before I quit my last job.

She is thin, made up, loud, fun, in charge of her life, adorably dressed, vibrant, all the things I am not. I just loved her for taking me, a slightly dumpy thirty-something nonprofit director type and believing in me as the kind of woman who could pull off dyed-black-with-white-streaks. She brought out my inner punk, but it was always healthy and shiny and well cut and — well no matter what else was going on, fights with my husband, setbacks at work, unplanned pregnancies, pitocin labor, breastfeeding, miscarriage… I had great hair. It looked great to me, anyway. One of my colleagues recently said it was a cry for attention. Yes she’s a catty woman, but it’s okay. H’m. Maybe she was right. The two, great hair and a cry for attention, aren’t mutually exclusive I guess.
She, this hairdresser, was so f*cking good I wrote a poem about her, about how I hated almost everything about that town but if I left there I would have to leave her too.

Fastforward a long, long time. Far too long. While I wasn’t working, and when I first started this job and we were recovering from my time off work, and when we bought this house, I just couldn’t afford to go pay a hundred bucks for her to do a really good job. I’ve been scraping by on fifteen dollar haircuts whenever I had a moment to run in one of those fifteen dollar haircut places. I even– gasp!– lightened my hair myself this summer. Ugh.

Now I am far from a glamour puss. I grow my hair long and flowing because I am too chicken to do one of those cool haircuts I see on other women, chic and short and edgy. My hair would probably be far cuter, and far less, uh, flat and straight, if it were shorter.

On the other hand, I once told my husband that if I ever let my dye job grow out, no matter how bad things become, to please shoot me, or get me to Shelly posthaste.

That was before I quit my job, stayed home for six months, went back to work and bought a house. That’s what I get for talking in such terms– that is, the grown out, home lightened mess you see today.
Well a) being so nasty toward myself for having less than overdone hair is against the feminist manifesto. I don’t know why I should be so shallow. And b) my hair is now at that grown out dye job stage and it has been making me miserable.

So… I’ve been waiting a month. That’s how long it took to get an appointment with her. She is that good. She never has openings, never. When I found out I only had to wait a month I considered myself lucky. Her schedule usually makes one wait six to eight weeks.

Tomorrow is the day. I am soooooo happy. I have no idea what she’ll want to do. I went back up to healing school last week and everyone was complimenting me on my natural color, how much softer I looked… but I just hate having light hair, I feel like it fades me into insignificant, and that darkened hair brings out my eyes and adds much needed drama. I don’t want to be soft. I am already too soft. I need badass hair. Don’t I??

I think maybe black with a white streak could be a little too four years ago… plus it took us about three visits to finally get the blonde sections good and white… plus one of my colleagues told me that hair like that is a cry for attention, and perhaps she is right.

So what else is there?

It doesn’t matter. She can do whatever she wants. Tomorrow at one thirty I am going to throw myself into her arms and bawl in relief. Dear God I can’t wait to smell that ammonia and feel that dye stinging my scalp and coloring my ears and neck. I can’t wait to sit in my little plastic cap baking under the dryer. I can’t wait to walk out of there glossy, buffed and fluffed. Did I mention that her assistant, possibly the only gay male for hundreds of miles around, gives the best shampoo massages and is the most maternal, sweet, accepting, and caring presence ever????
I am counting the minutes.

I’ll report back.