There are three things I am absolutely sure about in life: Klondike bars are a gift from God, Botox works, and I absolutely look hideous while getting my hair colored.
Maybe you share the same sentiment or maybe you don’t, but after my stylist puts the goo on my hair (and half of my face–lots of gray happening) she vanishes to where stylists go, and I am left abandoned, facing an image so ugly I find myself only being able to steal glimpses of it. I can’t even look at it. It’s that horrifying.
As I sit there trying to convince myself that I’m being pampered and trying not to make eye contact with the ghoul sitting in front of me or the other patrons as they enter the salon (happy, pretty–possibly signing up for the same fate ha ha!), I hear these voices in my head (hopefully) telling me, your head is soooooo small, and you’re soooooo lucky you’re already married, and good grief get a facial–even your own mother would deny you right now.
Voices….bad…but they’re soooo convincing. It makes me feel like a complete imposter. (I’m not pretty–never have been–I’m…this…)
So, today, I actually decided to take these feelings to a whole new level. In your FACE self-esteem!
I did a “color and run” which I’ve NEVER done before and find it highly unlikely I will ever do again. A “color and run” is when you get the color and go home. (It’s not a thing-but my stylist has learned to work with me and my urgency.) So…I signed up for going home and finishing it myself. It’s kind of like self-serve color. My stylist put on my color, and I got the hell out of her way–because that was the deal.
After the color was delivered and others were in the wings awaiting their fate with color or scissors, I found myself in this mad dash to gather all of my belongings (I don’t travel light), get my children out the door (yelling go, go ,go!), and put the winter coat that seemed like a good idea at 7am on my body without touching any of my hair. I threw out kisses in the air with a “Thanks!” and “Bye!” while basically ditching my too slow kids to make it to the car as if to avoid some impending doom if I were to cross the path of any other human being.
As I drove home, hovering at the legal limits of speed desperately trying to avoid the possibility of being pulled over by an undeserving cop unaware of the terror that would greet him at the window as he cautiously approached the vehicle, I pull my sun visor over to my left side to shield my hideousness from oncoming traffic and asked my child in the front seat to do the same on her side. This same child, however, was too busy sadistically trying to get a picture of me in my
humiliating compromising state.
Perfect! Now I might wreck because I’m trying to strangle my child.
Well, after yelling obscenities at red lights and throwing not so nice gestures at anyone following traffic signals, I finally made it home. I concealed my car in the garage, bolted through my front door, and slid safely in to the private confines of my shower where I could finally rinse away the ugly and get back to the illusion.
Am I the only one? How do you feel all gooped up?