The way some people feel about dentists is the way I feel about hair dressers. Sitting in the chair, my stomach twists into knots and my small talk skills disappear. I’ve had waist-length hair since I can remember, and it’s slowly become a part of my identity. I go in every year or so for a trim, and lately, for a change of colour from my natural golden brunette. Due to moving a lot, and a few mini hair disasters, I’ve never been able to find my hair’s soul mate, so I keep bouncing from salon to salon hoping for the best.
What I found this week was officially not the best.
Like so many hair disasters, and horror movies, it started out so innocently. There was me, the mirror and the stylist, and I thought what I wanted was simple and straight-forward. A few inches off to get rid of the split ends, and a renewal of the seriously faded natural ginger colour I had been rocking without touch-ups for the past year. I asked to see the stylist’s swatches, and picked out the one that looked the closest to what I wanted. The stylist seemed confident, told me to take off my glasses, and started the process.
Taking off my glasses is one of the worst parts of getting my hair done, since I am blinder than most bats. I can’t really see what the stylist is doing or how things are turning out until it’s all over with, so I just have to lay back and trust. Besides, they’re the professionals. They’re supposed to know what they’re doing better than I do after
all those years of rigorous medical training they have to go through the eight months they spent in beauty school, right?
To be fair, the actual process wasn’t so bad. The stylist had this awful habit of taking my wet hair up from the roots and tossing it like my hair was a salad, which kind of hurt since my hair is long, and thus, pretty heavy when it’s wet. Still, I was only waiting about half an hour for the colour to do its thing, and the cut went smoothly. It was only two hours later when I put on my glasses again that I started to panic a little.
“Um, it’s a little dark. It’s too brown.” Were the words that came out of my mouth. The words in my head were more along the lines of “I said ginger. GINGER. Light. Natural. Ginger. Bright. Summery. Ginger. You’d better fix this.” My hair was a dark, flat, auburn. It would look really cute on some people, but as a girl who happens to be paler than pale, super dark hair colours just look awful. It was kind of something like:
When I wanted something like:
So, ya know. Not quite right, dude.
The stylist assured me that it was fine, they could lighten me up. At the beginning of the consultation, they’d said that they would darken whatever I wanted down a shade so that my colour wouldn’t be ruined after a few weeks out in the sun. They also said that they didn’t want me to be too flourescently orange. I guess that this first colour was their idea of protecting me. I’m not too upset at this point. They say they will fix it, that I will be bright and coppery and natural and gingery and all will be well. I send an annoyed text to my mother and sit back in the chair and wait for them to fix me.
When I get my glasses back again, the panic has fully set in.
That is what I got. Except… worse. Cause that lady is a model and professional people styled her hair and not cave trolls with blonde wigs and scissors.
The cave troll thing might be slightly unfair, but the way I look now is also slightly unfair, so, I think it evens out.
Now, I am trying not to cry and all I want to do is leap out of the chair and throw a little tantrum. The stylist won’t stop brushing my hair out for no apparent reason and it’s taking nearly every fibre of my being not to just jump up while she’s taking her sweet time and run on out of there. Somehow I sit, and eventually I stand, and I walk to the front. The owner comes over and I explain how hideous I feel. Everyone insists that I look pretty, but I don’t care because I now feel like a hag and I wish that head scarves were more in style.
I go back in two weeks to get it fixed, since with two attempts at colouring me, my hair might fall off if they tried it a third time. In the meanwhile, I am stuck feeling as if I’m wearing a bad wig and trying not to look in the mirror. I don’t really know what to tell the hair stylist when I go back. I have to let them fix it, since I paid (though at a discounted rate, and without a tip). I just don’t know how else to describe the hair I want! I pointed to a swatch totally unlike the one they put on my head, and I don’t know how much clearer I could have gotten than that. I have tried pictures before, but that didn’t work out so well the last time.
Maybe I’ll just scalp a Disney princess, make myself a wig, and be done with it all.
I’m disappointed, embarrassed, exasperated and a whole lot of other things. This hair disaster was just the icing on the cake after two major disasters happened already this month- one that’s completely life changing, too. My hair is my pride, and that pride is gone- though hopefully only for a few more weeks.
The point of sharing all of this with you is not just to rant about what the cave trolls have done to me, though. I think just about every girl has had at least one bad experience at the salon, and then we feel like this until the colour changes or it grows out. I know this isn’t anywhere near the worst that could have happened to me, and reading other horror stories on blogs/tumblr has helped ease my own hair pain, so maybe this will help ease yours. We can’t all have Disney princess hair all the time, but I still hold out hope for finding my hair’s soul mate in a stylist.
Join me for a rousing cover of “One Day My
Prince Stylist Will Come”, anyone? Leave your hair horror stories in the comments!