17 June 2010

The Price of Beauty

Every time I go to get my hair colored, I wonder what in the wide universe posses me to do it. First there is the 2-3 hour a-thon with your hair dresser. Luckily mine is awesome. There are those unlucky seekers of beauty whose hair dresser either talks to much, talks to little or talks about things that should be kept between her and her spouse. (Yes, I am assuming most hair dressers are women, but I have been to a man before, so don't think I'm that ignorant. Not about this anyway.)

If the conversation is agreeable, which I do hope it is, the next step is always just delightful. Every other piece of hair on your head is separated out, placed in aluminum foil and painted with something that smells awful. Then the aluminum foil is folded up and pressed to your head, creating an impenetrable shield that even the most advanced alien mind control devises would fail to penetrate. At least you're safe from psychic scans when you've got the foil going on. Hey, that's a great idea for a story. Maybe I'll use it one day.

Sitting around in foils is about the most unattractive thing I can think of doing. Other than running in a bathing suit, that is. Oh, and 80's big hair. Anyway, if your hair is longer, the foil looks like shingles and the every hair of the every other hangs out between. I have no comparison for this, it might be an original look, but I'm not sure.

At some point you are pronounced as “done” (the requirements for this are sketchy) and un-foiled. After that things go pretty smoothly and after a trim and a style, you look in the mirror and marvel at how much you look exactly the same as last time you were here. The hair that is, maybe not other things. So was it all for not? Naught? Whatever. It probably was, but for some reason, it makes me feel better.

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