The last time I went to a hair appointment, it was just plain weird. Like salon owner harassing my hair dressed while I was getting my hair cut kind of weird. This time proved to be no better.
Ten minutes before my appointment, after I drove an hour, I got a call that my usual colorist called in sick. Someone else would fill in. Whatever. I thought it would not matter. Until I was greeted, or grunted at, by my replacement colorist. His sparkly scarf and heeled boots should have given away that he would love himself way more than me. He grumbled something along the lines of "What are you wanting done?" To which I basically said, "Can you look up my previous color? That is what I want." Without so much as a reply, he walked away. Fifteen minutes later, he magically returned. Silently. With color.
"Um. What do you have going on there? Is that the color I had last time?"
No reply. Just a prissy pursing of the lips. A face that said obviously.
Fine. Prissy Pants. Just remember, I tip based on how special you make me feel. Fail. Big fail for you.
At least the color came out right.
Which is more than I can say for my hair cut. And I don't get it. I even brought in a picture. Not just a celebrity picture with some impossible to recreate haircut. Oh no. I brought a picture of me. With my very own hair. Cut just like I like it.
And still hairdresser number two could not get it. What the hell?
PS Please send wigs.
I just broke out the scissors. I should be a fucking hairdresser. My hair looks awesome now.
It would probably be more impressive if I had a before shot to go with the after I attacked my hair with scissors shot. But my husband thought I was crazy enough making him take an after picture of my hair for my blog. Also, pretend that light fixture does not look like it is growing from my head.