As sometimes happens during the course of one's washing, conditioning, blow drying, straightening, decapitation, etc. daily regime, one's hair may need color treatment and/or cutting. This is not out of the ordinary. Plenty of hair stylists make a good living performing these services for their customers. Where I ran into a problem last night, was attempting to secure these services at a Styling School. As in Academia of the Absence of Hair Care Skills. What followed was a sad tale indeed. Children: avert your eyes.
I have very long hair. Grotesquely, inexplicably, long, Professional-Harpist hair. For no apparent reason, other than that someday I will be donating it to Locks of Love, I continue to let it grow to its heart's content. (I guess that is an apparant reason, but I digress.) When I emotionally detach from it, which is probably going to happen sooner rather than later, it will be going to a better head. Also, as the weak and impressionable spirit that I am, I have subscribed to the dreaded Highlighting Cycle of Hell, for the past 10 years of my adolescence, (I'm only 26 so I am still adolescent). Thus you have my head up to date, that is, before last night.
Last night, I met Daley (just a warning that I am fascinated with her name so hereafter I will be using it often). Daley was very sweet, very nice, and had good hair, but nonetheless, she was still enrolled in said "Academia". And boy does she have some extensive learning to do. We started out great; communicating my idea to return to my hair's natural color and state was extremely easy. Daley found my hair color on her little weird, freakish hair-color-wheel of fake hair tufts, and we were off! A quick check in with her 'professor' for the okay and we began our journey. I should have been suspicious of the heat emanating from the first bowl of hair colorant that Daley approached me with...
After the first 'process' of color, Daley put a second 'process' of darker color over it. I wonder if they call it a 'process' so you don't flip out when you see yourself in the giant mirror looking like they dunked your scalp in Ketchup. I sat still and quiet as a mouse for the 20 minutes needed for my scalp to burn off/colorant to work it's magic. We washed and rinsed and washed some more. Then over to the chair for blow drying, and wha...? I'm sorry, WHAT? Who in the lord's name signed off on the authorization to turn my head into a GIANT TOMATO with 3rd degree SUNBURN? All I could do was point and stare, mouth agape, chin slack on the parquet floor.
Daley. Dear, sweet, darling, anencephalic Daley. Oh, how I hope you have an advanced directive. Because when I finish with you, Daley, you will not be able to communicate your wishes about the ventilator that you are strapped to and the sedatives they must keep you on to stay alive due to the coma I will put you in. Daley.
I have decided to spare Daley for five days. After which, if my hair has not resumed some sense of the character it was pre-Daley, I may have another visit with the Dale-ster. Who may then have a visit with the Dump-ster. Also, because I refuse to make a public appearance before then, should someone mistakingly throw a bucket of water at my face to put out the blaze.
Is it hot in here?