Monday, August 8, 2016

I went to get my roots touched up Friday, but my regular hair dresser was out.  The woman that was in, seemed offended that I wanted to wait, so I said how bad could it be to myself and sat down in her chair.
She was a bright and cheerful gal I'd seen many times in the many years that I've been coming to the salon.
A sort of second string player, waiting to get her big chance, to get off the bench.
The salon is run by a Vietnamese woman, and I have never seen another white person in there, except for folks I send, like my mom and my friend Marta.
I like them because they use a straight-razor, instead of scissors, which works well on my thick hair.
Xien the owner started coloring my hair in 1999 when Maxwell was a baby, then Kim took over, when she retired.
They both do amazing work.
The gal I saw on Friday did not do amazing work.
Instead of a fine weave of ash blonde, I had bold strips and stripes of honey yellow and Beach Barbie BLONDE.

It was not ideal.

I went home and calmed myself.

Mark said that it wasn't


Not that bad if you are trying to get a part as an aging prostitute on Barney Miller, perhaps, but in every other scenario, it was that bad.

I worked my food cart shift Saturday, feeling like each customer was silently judging me.

When I got off a bit early, I raced to the salon, and found Kim, who wordlessly sat me down and and began weaving in darker blonde sections, followed by toner.

An hour and a half later, I walked out, hair dripping wet, because I was hosting a dinner party at 6:00.

It's still a little too light for my taste, but it's much better than it was.

Thank goodness.

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