One Saturday in November I got my hair done for the first time at the Kelly Cardenas salon. This would have been like any other day in November except it happened to be the day after I had gone on the most amazing first date ever. He was charming, he listened intently, he paid for everything, and by the end of the night we’d planned dates two and three.
Now I should have had my eye out for red flags, but how could I see straight? I was temporarily blinded by fireworks. I was still floating when I introduced myself to Nicole, the stylist who would later become my hairapist. It was while under the influence of romance that I decided to do something dramatic to my hair.
“Give me a new cut and color,” I said. “Something fun, and fresh–for the new me.”
“What do you mean ‘new you’?”
“Oh Nicole, honey. I met a guy. And let’s just say: there were fireworks.”
But by February, things weren’t looking so good. I needed hairapy in a bad, bad way. Not only was my hair fading, but I could feel my relationship washing out too. I went in to see Nicole in the hopes she could help me bring back that spark.
“How are things going with the suitor?” she asked.
“They’re good. I mean, I don’t know where he is right now–he travels a lot–but he’s going to call me when he’s back in town and we’re for sure going to hang out then. Things are really great when he’s in Chicago.”
“Uh-hum.” She said with the raised eyebrow of a woman who has heard it all. But I wasn’t listening.
“Make me look like Rihanna,” I said. “No, make me look like Rihanna’s older sister. No no, make me look like Rihanna’s accountant. Something edgy, yet practical.”
But even my spunky red highlights weren’t enough to keep this relationship from splitting at the ends. Last week I went back to the salon for the third time:
“Can you please just do something about this red, it turned all brassy in the sun, and now that it’s growing out I’m starting to look like the actual Rihanna… And can you just bring that wine bottle over here, so I don’t have to keep asking that poor assistant to fill this up?”
“Uh oh. What’s going on?” she asked, tying the hair smock around my neck.
“I broke up with my suitor,” I said through my tumbler of Chardonnay.
“Remember how I told you it was fireworks?”
“I was wrong. It wasn’t fireworks, it was a sparkler. They kinda look the same, but one fizzles out and burns you if you hold on too long.”
“I’m sorry,” my hairapist said, examining my mismatched hair. “What should we do about this?”
“Take me back to the old me,” I said, looking in the mirror.
And with that I began the slow and tedious return to the brunette I hadn’t seen in months. And while I waited patiently in foils, I ordered myself a large pizza and had it delivered to my chair.
It feels good to get back to my roots.
Sorry I’ve been so M.I.A. Disasters. I can’t tell you how glad I am to be back.
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