A little background is in order – this incident happened a couple years ago when I lived in the ‘city’. I had sort of forgotten about it until this weekend whilst visiting my favorite little lakeside village when someone posed that age-old query (and this never ever ceases to be clever) ‘Hey Red, do the curtains match the carpet?’ I have a standard reply that usually shuts ‘em right up and which I will not share here (you are welcome, Chris and Aaron). Anyhoo, that reminded me of this. If just one other faux redhead can learn from this cautionary tale, then I have made the world a better place.
It always happens so fast. One day I’m feeling all sassy and snappy the next I’ve got a streak of grey about an inch wide ripping its way down the middle of my head and I feel like Ruth Buzzy –not the funny Laugh-In Buzzy—more the way she looks now. That’s usually when I do the mad scramble to reconfigure my house-o’-cards budget to conjure up the funds for a quick trip to Tammy, the very talented hairdresser I was lucky enough to find. Now a smart woman would set aside some cash out of every paycheck so that when the grey rears its ugly head (roots?) the money would be waiting. I will have you know I am no smart woman, especially when it comes to things of a financial nature.
Well, one evening after three or more perfectly Horni margueritas (I just love ordering them) at the local tavern, it dawned on me that the grocery store had many different brands of hair color, with easy to follow instructions and little plastic gloves. It also occurred to me that the same grocery store had Double Stufs. On sale. Mighta been the tequila doing the thinking, but that sounded like the basis of a perfect Wednesday night. Did I mention “Fried Green Tomatoes” was on TV.
After a quick trip to the local grocer for Double Stufs, hair color, and several other items that seemed like a much better idea in the checkout line than they did the next day, I returned home, turned on the TV and started the project, following the instructions, as best my tequila-addled brain could. One stack of Double-Stufs later I blew my hair dry and was temporarily blinded. Probably should have gone for a shade, for lack of a better word, subdued-er. Think Ginger from Gilligan’s Island , minus the sequined wardrobe (and the mole, and the teensy waist and the flat tummy, but I digress). Then I thought about Tammy. She’d know I hadn’t come to her. She probably already knew. What would she do? Those city girls could be mean.
The next morning, I wound it around hot rollers, sprayed the beejeezus out of it, and walked into the office with my head held as high as a head suffering the after-effects of three or more pefectly Horni margeritas could be held. No one mentioned my new hair – which meant that A) It wasn’t as vivid a change as I thought, or B) they are a bunch of snobs who never freaking pay attention to me. Either way, I felt less conspicuous and slightly more comfortable.
Shortly thereafter, I noticed the new do was looking a tad shaggy. If I went a couple days without professionally made cocktails, I could finance a basic cut. Hey, I might be nuts enough to try covering my own grey, but I have not yet reached the level of crazy where I am gonna wield sharp objects around my own head. I called Tammy to make an appointment for a sassy cut. As luck would have it, she had an opening the next morning. But she sounded suspicious. Well, why wouldn’t she, she hadn’t colored my hair for 7 weeks. And then I just call her for a cut. Suddenly I felt dirty and ashamed. I shampooed and scrubbed my head like a flock of seagulls had just flown over it on their way from a meeting in the Dunkin Donuts dumpster, but the Ginger Grant glow only seemed to get more nuclear. I had to think fast. And fast thinking was right behind sound financial planning on my list of life skills.
As I walked into Tammy’s shop, the crumpled twenties in my hand were doing nothing to absorb the flop sweat that formed as soon as I felt her scrutiny on my color job. Oh Gawd, she knows. She knows. I stuttered, I mumbled some inane chitchat about my crappy work life and crappier love life, but it was nervous chitchat. Not my usual witty banter. I knew she could see right through me. I tried to figure out the best tactic.
I thought about putting her on the defensive – after all, I am a single woman living paycheck to paycheck. Does she really think I can afford to shell out $100 plus tip every time I want to be a natural redhead? Yeah, make her feel guilty – it’s all her fault. Of course they do say (I have never really been sure who they are) honesty is the best policy. But I bet this mysterious 'they' have never had a scorned hairdresser with easy access to chemicals and scissors standing over them. I took a deep breath while she fastened the black plastic cape around my neck – a little too tightly, but I dared not complain.
“So, haven’t seen you for awhile – is your job keeping you that busy?” She batted my hair like a cat bats a half-dead mouse.
“Yeah, it's alot for me to learn, and the pay stinks (good – play the finance card) but the Old Port
I didn’t dare look at the pile of hair on the floor. OR in the mirror. I’d just let her work out her anger and frustration while I recalculated my house-of-cards budget to accommodate the purchase of a collection of hats. I decided to just admit what I’ve done and beg forgiveness.
“I was overserved.”
“What?” At least I think she said ‘What’. The snips were getting louder and closer to my brain area.
“I had been out with friends, we had a few margueritas, I was feeling really mousy and dumpy. You have to understand, I was broke. Anyway, I went into the grocery store, and it was right there.”
"Oh, something you picked up at the grocery store, I thought you had more class than that.”
“Tammy, I’m sorry. As soon as I got it home, I knew I’d made a mistake. But it was too late to stop. I just closed my eyes, did the deed, and got rid of all the evidence. I swear it’ll never happen again. I was thinking of you the whole time.” OK, that might have been a bit much, but that has never stopped me.
“ I was ashamed to go outside the next day. I felt like everyone was staring at me. I know now that I need you.” That was definitely my signal to cease yapping.
Tammy was quiet as she styled my hair. I wished she’d say something, anything.
“Okay, why don’t we make an appointment now to see if we can fix this. How long ago did this … happen?”
“Umm, about a week.”
“I wondered why you hadn’t called. Okay, I’ll see you on the 24th at 5:00 sharp. And you might want to try to undo some of this damage in the meantime. I’d suggest this deep conditioner, twice a week. And this polish – it’ll tone down that Dollar Store tint. And maybe this sculpting mud to give it some shape.”
I exhaled deeply, tucked the sweaty crumpled twenties away and fished out my debit card, reshuffling the house-o’-cards budget one more time.
Absolutely too funny..... You can't imagine what goes on in our minds when we see that store bought "Make me Beautiful just like on the box" look....Yeah, baby, we rake in then...
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