This is a Flickr badge showing public photos from Lori~Flower. Make your own badge here.
Writing Tripe Since 2004
BlogYear in Review 2005

BlogYear in Review 2006
Previous Posts

Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Agony? Ecstasy? Hair Putty?
I just don't think you men realize what we women go through each time we make an appointment at the salon. Our precious, flowing tresses put into the hands of another. If we're lucky, it's someone we have grown to trust. But you just never know; even our favorite stylist can have a cold, or be thinking about an upcoming date, or wondering if that really was something alive crawling through the hair of their previous client.

Tonight though, I put my hair, not to mention my heart and self-worth, in the hands of a total stranger. My stylist, Angel, is amazing and I love her with all my heart, but I really wish she would stop having babies, especially twins. It really puts a crimp in my personal style. And I just couldn't wait any longer, the hair was looking far too long, far too heavy, and--dare I say it--far too gray. Ok so there's only about 10 grey hairs, but that's 10 too many.

So it was with some trepidation that I walked into the salon tonight to meet Armand. Who looks just like what you think somone named Armand would look like. Only shorter.

I told him what I had in mind. I told him again what I had in mind. He started cutting. This is always the most anxious time for us, because it always seems like your entire head of hair is now residing on the floor, on Armand's pinstriped trousers, on your nose. My mantra at this point became "just don't let it be a mullet," as hair--my hair--continued to fly. Wanna talk about vulnerability?

There was a pause in the cutting and I opened my eyes, which I had shut when he brought out the razor. "You will look hot like Parrrrrrrrrrrris Hilton," said Arrrrrrmand. Most of the time when someone says "I gulped" it's an exaggeration. But not when you look in the mirror at your half-dry hair and realize there is a strong possiblity that you've been given an inverse mullet. Hello Mrs. Brady. Hello Scarlett's hair don't. But I couldn't panic yet, the color was still to come.

The color process went much more smoothly, unless you count the overwhelming feeling that the cape was growning increasingly tighter around my neck, but I attribute that to the rising sense of being trapped in a hydraulic chair while a South American midget with a a ponytail and frosted tips hacked at my skull with a pair of pruning shears and was now spreading on some spackle to fill in the holes.

Yet, while Armand was not my Angel, he was a man who knew how to make a blow dryer look like an extension of himself. He whirled and twirled that dryer like a gunslinger. He created body where there was none. He flipped in some ends, he flipped out others. The new darker color he created made my eyecolor really pop. "You'rrrrrrrrrrrre looking verrrrrrrry good, Lorrrrri," Armand purred, rubbing something called "hair putty" in his palms. And I started to believe him, and continued to believe him while I was writing out a check for an exhorbitant amount and giving Armand 15% of that in cash.

I may have an inverse mullet, but I'm so rockin' it.

posted by LoRi~fLoWer
Post a Comment
<< Home

Home: Eastern PA, United States

"Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same" --The Fray

My Ecosystem Details
Blogs in my Cycle of Song
Feeding my Gossip Addiction
Stuff You'll Never Look At

My blog is best viewed with Firefox. It's better and it's FREE!
Get Firefox!

Free Blogger Templates

I'm an A-list Blogebrity


Weblog Commenting and Trackback by

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.