Last year, yes year, I got a haircut and some subtle ombre highlights. Because decision making is not my strong suit, I waited another year to get my hair done. I couldn’t get it cut or they would cut the ombre out. I couldn’t go get more ombre because then I would have to commit to getting color again.
Rashly I decided to go to a chain salon, but to ask for their resident ombre expert. Surely there has to be someone! I was wrong. I walked out of the salon looking like a meth stripper from the Sons of Anarchy.
After my brother and several friends pointed out that I looked like a lunatic, or worse, that I looked like a person on peopleofwalmart.com, I decided to cry alone in my bedroom for awhile*. After that I decided to call the salon and tell them to fix it.
So, they fixed it the best they could. But I brought my mom because I am weak willed and my mom, while very mild mannered usually, will go to bat for her children. And while I’m almost 30, I just really needed my mom to give the hair dresser who did this to me the evil eye from across the room.
This experience was overwhelmingly traumatic for me. So much so, that I may need to go on Doctor Phil and talk it through.
Next time you see me, I’ll probably just look like this:
*This marks the second time I’ve cried during this pregnancy, the other being when Colonel Brandon brings Kate Winslet a piano for her tiny cottage sitting room.
** Bonus Gif. “It sucks, as it cuts”