No Big Hair

You may have experienced a time when you asked your stylist for the same haircut as she gave you last time, but instead ended up with a new “doo” that you didn’t expect.

That happened to me in 2001 when Tim and I were travelling the U.S. in a motorhome. I had a speech in San Antonio the following week and needed to have my hair colored. My hairdresser had given me the brand name and numbers of the color.

I called several shops and finally found a beautician who said she used the color I needed. She seemed confident . . . until she started mixing the color. I urged her to call my hair stylist to get clarification.

I had an inkling that this wasn’t going to go well. It normally takes a total of an hour and a half to cut, color, dry and style my hair. She had already taken that long and hadn’t even finished applying the color! When I saw the writing on the package, “golden blonde,” I started hyperventilating. If I told her to just stop, I’d have one half of my hair blonde and the other brown.

She kept applying color with the brush painting further and further down my forehead chasing one grey hair. I said, “Well, you could have pulled it out instead of giving me this big black streak down my face.” She laughed and said, “I guess it was a dumb blonde thing because I didn’t even think of that.”

She scrubbed my forehead with color remover, but it would not come off. I looked like Eddie Munster with a two-inch dark band around my hairline that came to a point in the middle of my forehead. You may be wondering how “golden blonde” could make my skin turn black. The actual color was more of a dirty brown with dark purple highlights. It kind of sounds like a bruise and looked like one, too.

When Tim saw me he fought the urge to say what he was thinking. I could see him searching his memory bank so he wouldn’t say something that had gotten him a chilly reception in the past. His measured and carefully chosen words were, “Remember, you told me this morning that it washes out over time.” Then he turned and ran out of the motor home. I’m not sure if he was afraid of my response or thought that I might throw something at him. Since then I have colored my own hair.

I wanted to save my sister, Terri, from suffering the same fate from a rogue stylist. Today’s gift was to send hair color, shampoo and conditioner to her. Maybe I should have warned her husband, Henry, not to laugh if Terri goes rogue and paints her forehead chasing a stray gray one.

In Giving,

Robin