From the Top

Now that I'm working my way back into the swing of things after my visit with Mom & Kevin, it's time to start blogging about the experiences of the last nine days, and I'll start from the top...literally.

As you may know, I made the terribly ill-advised decision to "temporarily" dye my hair black to lend authenticity to my Halloween costume. After the gothic hue failed to wash out after the prescribed number of shampoos, it became clear that I'd have to either start listening to 9 Inch Nails (again) and shopping at Hot Topic, or I'd have to engage the help of professionals. I chose the latter, and rolled to the hairdresser last Monday morning.

After explaining my hair color indiscretion, I was informed that I had two choices: they could either bleach my entire head and then apply a corrective color (whereupon my hair might fall out), or they could try to apply some highlights (which would be unlikely to cause all-over baldness). After considering the excellent choices presented, I went with the highlights, which I've never had before, chiefly because I don't care for striped hair.

In any case, Sheila agreed that highlights were the way to go, and returned shortly bearing an ominously large bowl of a substance resembling the scouring powder slurry we used in the Army to clean grout. Although my head was swimming with fear and the smell of the Clorox paste, I noted that she also carried a box of foil strips and a brush suitable for basting a ham. After unpacking her implements and cheerfully warning me again that the highlighted strips might "fall out", she set to work applying the paste to tiny sections of hair and covering those sections with foil until I looked like the aforementioned ham.

Once my entire head was hammed out, I was left to sit. For almost an hour. As it turns out, this was ample time to notice that all the hairdressers in this salon were frosted and tipped to within an inch of their lives. It was also time enough to notice that this salon also lacked the requisite rocker-chick stylist, and was completely devoid of gay men. What kind of place was this? Was this even a real hair salon? These questions frightened me badly, but it was really too late to run screaming into the parking lot.

After 2 1/2 hours of foiling, defoiling, washing, re-coloring the bleached streaks, moussing, blowing dry and about half a can of hairspray, I emerged looking like a striped version of Marlo Thomas from That Girl, complete with a flip that swooped, defiant of gravity, from my head approximately six inches. Since my hair no longer looked like it had been styled with boot-black, and none of it had fallen out, I was thrilled, no matter how silly my new 'do.

Behold the power of lowered expectations!