I moved to the area in October and after a couple of failed attempts to find "my" new hair place, I decided to just buy a box and do it myself.
I have giant, giant hair. I tried to do my roots, but missed huge swaths of iron gray sparkles, so I tried again.
Don't do that. Don't color your own hair, first all, at least not if you have giant hair, and certainly don't try a second time if the first fails. My Tom said I had to wait at least a week before trying to fix it, so I've spent the past seven days indoors, a traumatized, pink-haired recluse, rocking and humming "Beauty School Drop Out" to myself.
Daniel, who is the colorist I'm not, was probably in physical pain when he saw me walk in, although he was diplomatic. But although my hair appeared to be bad, it was actually much, much worse. My hair already is very stubborn about taking color, but thanks to my double botched job, that pink-hued mess didn't want to budge.
But Daniel, my new hero, is a teddy bear warrior. He colored, he foiled, he washed, he colored . . . He triumphed over that Dr. Seuss shrubbery. Tomorrow, I will re-enter the normal world with what we have agreed we will call ombre. Daniel has more work ahead of him as he restores my look to live action from anime, but he is affordable, patient, and resolute.
I have found "my" hair place.