If you've been reading the blog for a while, chances are you've heard Lisa talk about the time I decided to chop off all my hair like a boy and dye it red. Let's just say this was a bad idea...of epic proportions. I had a mullet for over a year during the grow-out phase and there still seriously may be traces of ten-year-old red color in my hair.
Anywho, I'm a little sensitive about the locks. The word "brassy" gives me nightmares and someone threatening to paint red hair dye on my hair would be the most effective form of torture I can think of. So, what better time to have a hair-mergency than before a huge wedding weekend where I am not only a bridesmaid, but the matron-of-freaking-honor? That's right, I had a four alarm hair-mergency.
9:00 last Saturday morning: Salon calls to cancel appointment I've had on the books for over a month because highly recommended stylist (HRS) has strep. Totally screwed up not only my day, but Stacey's, who stayed the night to babysit during appointment.
5:00: Appointment is re-scheduled, but shoved in. Consultation with HRS is rushed and rather vague. HRS is painting the top five inches of my hair only with some sort of mixed color and I'm feeling slightly nervous that the top and bottom won't blend. The words "multi-tonal color" and "totally natural" were thrown around and I had visions of walking out of the salon looking like my blonde, 2-year-old daughter.
5:25: HRS approaches my chair and tells me not to worry, the color will never come out as dark as it is looking.
6:00: Random girl washes me out and HRS comes to the sink to comment on how great the color looks.
6:15: Return to seat with wet hair and see the distinct glimmer of a brassy, coppery, auburny monstrosity painted around the top five inches of my hair. Die a little.
6:20: Get word that HRS does not have time to blow dry my hair and after he slaps a little product in, I am ushered to the front desk where I am told to pay $100. Abandon gift certificate from daughter for Mother's Day and pay the difference. Die a little.
6:30: Immediately call Lisa. Clicking can be heard in the background as she's sharing my nightmare with the world via Twitter. Die a little.
6:45: Dry hair and realize it's not as bad as I thought it was. It's WORSE. I have red roots and a blonde bottom. Leave panicky message with salon where I bumble about brassy hair, a matron of honor speech and broken dreams. Die COMPLETELY.
Conclusion? I had to spend an additional three hours today having bleach painted on my head in an effort to cut the red. The woman who was commisioned to fix the HRS' botch job did the best she could, but my hair is now orange instead of red and I am dead inside*.
*Okay, okay I know there are BIGGER problems in the world. MUCH BIGGER. But I have ugly hair and thus permission to be dramatic.
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