You leave so much behind when you move – familiar routines, neighborhood friends, church family, doctors, and the kids’ favorite babysitter. And then there are those relationships you don’t fully appreciate until you have to part ways.
Like your hairdresser. Judge if you will, but…I really, really, really, REALLY miss my hairdresser after a move because it’s not easy finding someone who gets me AND my hair. I can make due in just about any situation, but God help me when my bangs are resting on my eyelashes or my roots are begging for a little attention. Nope, that situation is not good at all, especially if I get my hands on a pair of scissors in the process. I know better, but I convince myself I can just “touch things up” until I find someone I trust…so great is the fear of going to someone new to cut my hair.
You hear horror stories from friends about bad haircuts, but nothing really prepares you for it when it actually happens to you. Trust me, I know. I’ve been there.
I’ll never forget the time I called my hairdresser for an appointment in advance of a big event only to discover that she was booked. The soonest she could see me was almost a week after the event I needed her to help me get ready for.
With panic and desperation setting in, I toyed with the idea of doing my own color, but talked myself out of it. I’m pretty sure one of Murphy’s laws clearly states that any box of color you buy and apply yourself just before a big event will either fry your hair or turn it some shade impossible to fix, or both.
And so, I strayed.
I cast my loyalties aside and set out to find someone who could work with my schedule. I got lucky, or so I thought. I should have known it was too good to be true when I managed to snag an appointment for the very next evening.
I arrived early for my 5:00 p.m. appointment and settled in for a quick trim and color touch up. Six hours later, my ends were trimmed, my roots were touched up and I was sporting a few new highlights. But, I discovered, as my hair dried that it was YELLOW. There is no shade of blonde to describe the color of my hair, no crayon either, unless that crayon is called Big Bird yellow. In shock, I forked over $160 to a hairstylist who had given me Big Bird hair.
I made it to the car but barely had the keys in the ignition when I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror. And then, I lost it. Those tears were flowing down my face like I was a sinner in church on a Sunday morning. I then called my husband, whose blood pressure skyrocketed at the sound of my inconsolable sobbing.
“Annie calm down and tell me what is wrong! Have you had an accident?” he asked, unaware of how close to the truth he was.
In a moment in between sobs, I wailed, “It’s my hair!”
At first there was silence. Then I’m pretty sure I heard him smile. I’m positive, in fact, that he was smiling on the other end of that phone. He simply said, “Babe, just tell me about it, what happened?”
I choked out, “I have (sob, sniffle) Big Bird hair!”
To his credit, all he said was, “It can’t be that bad, Babe,” he said, adding, “Please calm down and just come on home.”
OK, I know that by this point some of you are judging me, maybe thinking I’m petty to care so much about my hair, but I can’t help it. I like my hair. I like Big Bird too, but that doesn’t mean I want to look like him.
After the longest 5 miles ever, I was home. I forced myself to open the door to go in. My husband and son called out from the family room upstairs. I forced myself to climb the stairs, dread building with each step. Finally, I stepped onto the landing as my husband looked up from his computer. Any sympathy he had been prepared to shower on me went out the window as he took in the sight of me and my Big Bird hair, and he just burst out laughing.
“Babe it’s bad, really bad,” I said, as the waterworks began anew. He just hugged me and my Big Bird hair and let me get it out of my system.
7:00 a.m. the next morning, determined to face the music, I made the “call of shame.” I confessed that I had cheated, described in agonizing detail what had been done to my hair and begged for an appointment. She took pity on me and squeezed me in somehow. Thankfully, she was nothing but sweet about the entire situation, and needless to say, I swore off cheating ever since.
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