| rev:text
| - I decide since it's been over a year since my last haircut, it's time for an update. I want to get it all--cut, color, highlights. I call, make an appointment for Saturday before a planned girls' night so I can wow everyone, everything is swell so far.
Before we get started she asks the requisite questions, and I point out to her what colors I'm going for. The most important point I make is that I want my highlights to look natural. Just to say it another way, I say flat out, NO BLONDE STREAKS. I also mention my hair is naturally curly, and I never straighten it.
Let's fast forward past the part where she's putting in the foils, chit chatting about how she and her husband love Red Lobster, blah blah, typical salon blather.
At this point some woman comes and rudely asks if Angel can see her now, without an appointment. Instead of saying, "I'm with a customer right now, we can make an appointment or you can come back when I'm finished," she says, "just give me 15 minutes."
Wait. What.
Then Angel starts the color. As she's putting in the color, I can feel she's kind of just slopping it on. It's in my ears, across my forehead, all down my neck. I'm starting to worry, but I'm like hey, maybe she's just making sure it's saturated, she'll make sure she gets it off all my skin, she's a professional. Right?
Apparently not. When it's time to rinse, another stylist at the salon walks by, sees me, and goes, "Oh...Angel..." with a grimace. Now I'm mortified. Angel brushes it off, blames the showercap she had me wear for the color all over my face. She starts scrubbing at my skin like mad with this liquid meant to get off color stains, but it's not working in the slightest.
Then the other woman offers a suggestion...let's rub some cigarette ashes on it!
WAIT. WHAT.
She goes on to explain the situation is so dire, the only thing that will help at this point is cigarette ashes, a trick she learned in beauty school.
So I wish I was joking, but they went outside to the ashtray, got some cigarette ashes and began scrubbing my face with them.
Once my face is raw, they give up and put me in front of a mirror for the first time and I am too furious for words.
Not only is my skin dyed so I look like I had some horrible encounter where the sun NESTED ON MY HEAD and gave me a disease, but I've got these nasty blonde streaks all over and I look like I'm trying to go to Comic-Con as Rogue.
Now the woman who barged in earlier is back, this with a styrofoam box of some really smelly food, and she's sitting right behind me offering up nuggets of wisdom such as, "you don't look very happy. At least you can be grateful, knowing you were happy with what you had before!"
Angel starts combing through it and asks me what I think. "I don't like it," is all I can come up with. She tells me I just need to take some time, get used to it, she thinks it's beautiful.
I'm seething about the tacky blonde stripes, so she finally offers me a "solution." She can tint it for me for an extra $20!
Unhappy is an understatement, so she hurries through the cut (or maybe she's hurrying because she promised Eating Woman Full of Knowledge that she'd see her 20 minutes ago?). Then she blow dries it out straight, something I also mentioned at the beginning as I never straighten my hair. All the while telling me how pretty it turned out.
I had plans for the evening, I can't go anywhere two inches of my forehead and the top half of my ears dyed bright red!
"Just go home, wash your face, put some makeup over it. In 2 days you, won't even know."
All sorts of comments not appropriate for general audiences go here. Fill in the blanks.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)
![[cxml]](/fct/images/cxml_doc.png)
![[csv]](/fct/images/csv_doc.png)
![[text]](/fct/images/ntriples_doc.png)
![[turtle]](/fct/images/n3turtle_doc.png)
![[ld+json]](/fct/images/jsonld_doc.png)
![[rdf+json]](/fct/images/json_doc.png)
![[rdf+xml]](/fct/images/xml_doc.png)
![[atom+xml]](/fct/images/atom_doc.png)
![[html]](/fct/images/html_doc.png)