Went to a fantastic party on Friday night. Much fun was had by everyone.
Then, I made the fatal error of letting a hung-over straight woman do my hair the next day. (Well, I’d made the appointment weeks ago.) I don’t like it. My husband likes it…but ya know, as much as I love the man, it’s not his head that’s a weird shade of pink chocolate, ya know? Hee. I mean, I love weird colors, don’t get me wrong…but they have to be weird colors that I was trying to get, not weird colors that just sort of randomly appear on my head. And I tend towards the eggplant/purple side of the spectrum. But this color turned out pretty flat, and monochromatic, and just wrong. I don’t like it. And I can’t do anything chemical about it for a least a week, because I don’t want to fry what’s left of my hair. And don’t get me started on the cut. It’s not at all what I asked her to do, but she cut so much off that I’ll have to let it grow in a little before I can fix that.
I haven’t washed it yet, but I’m thinking tomorrow may be one of those days where I soak my head in some strong black tea from India to try and tone it down a bit back into the brunette/black range I was shooting for, and not this sort of weird pinky brown they gave me.
You know, I know better than to let straight women near my hair. It’s always a disaster. I should have just gotten out the passport and gone to Dallas. And yes, perhaps it is sexist to say that only gay men can do hair…but damn, I sure do have a history of straight women screwing it up, and gay men doing it right. If only my Renaldo had not left me for Corpus…that bastard, leaving me alone in the mean streets of style-free rural Texas.
On the upside, the gym I’m going to join after the big show is finally over, has a salon…and you know that the clubs that have spas and salons hire really amazing people to work there, because trophy wives…no sense of humor. Trophy wives will kill you for screwing up their hair. Old punks (like me) bitch about it on live journal, but for a trophy wife, that’s part of their stock in trade, doncha know. Hee.
Sorry, I’m in a mean, pink-headed mood. It makes me cruel. Well, cruel-er. Maybe I’m hormonal. Perhaps it’s early menopause…perhaps it’s that I didn’t get to kill anyone for giving me a pink shag on my head, instead of my gorgeous waist length hair.
What was I thinking? I do this every year, screw up my hair before my birthday. Every year. Like my sacrifice to the harvest gods is my sanity. Sigh.
Short, fat, and pink is no way to go through life.