The Bad Hair Week, Part 2
I get in my car and find myself so distracted by my image in the rearview mirror that I can barely drive. I finally make it home to the safety of my bathroom. Thankfully, my sons aren't here to see me before I can think of an excuse.
I stare at my reflection and try to figure out whom I remind myself of. It has been nagging at me since I got in the car. I know I've seen this hair somewhere. Then, it hits me...
All I need is a tube top, spandex shorts and a doublewide trailer and I am every woman ever interviewed after a tornado. ("Marlene's trailer just up and flew away and she had my good casserole dish!") I am the poster child for 'white trash'.
I am a candidate for 'The Jerry Springer Show': "Evil Hairstylists with Mind Control! Have you been a victim? Call this number to appear as a guest..."
My sons come home and I immediately launch into a ranting explanation about my hair and the evil stylist with her hypnotic coercion. They sense I am unpredictable and on the verge of volatility. Because they value their lives and their freedom, they cautiously smile and pat my arm as they scurry to their rooms.
I call my local beauty supply store and explain what has happened. I'm told I should wait a week, but then I'll be able to tint it at home to a more natural color, something closer to my original shade.
I become a hermit for the next week, leaving home only twice, once to sit in a darkened movie theatre and the other to buy food and the hair coloring kit. I work on a savings plan - the 'Eliminate Pinky Fund'. I am determined to never use a salon coupon again.
Seven long days later, I wait till I'm alone in the house, apply the dye to my hair and sit, listening to the ticking of the timer. No more daydreaming about how I'll look - just fasting and prayer.
I rinse and apply the enclosed conditioner. I rinse again, comb, and blow-dry. I mousse and fuss till I have the right fluff and style, finally standing back to take a hard look in the mirror. At last, I look more like me.
The color is lighter than my own hair, but it is closer to my original shade and the brassy blond streaks have turned into softer highlights.
What a relief! I can have a life again. I can leave the house without a hat and dark glasses.
Once more I wait for my sons to come home. They are my best and worst judges.
When they walk in, I look at them with anticipation. They stare at me questioningly (they are males, after all).
"Notice anything?" I ask, fluffing my hair with my hand.
My fifteen-year-old looks at me a few seconds and says, "Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you about something."
"Ask away," I say with confidence.
He hesitates, then blurts out, "Is your hair supposed to be cut in a mullet or was that an accident?"
I stare at him in shock for a moment, then hurry down the hall to my bathroom once more. All the worrying and anguish I've had for the last week has been about the color of my hair, not the cut. Had I really been so 'blinded by the bright' that I hadn't noticed Pinky had chopped my hair into that distinctive, 1980's, 'business in the front, party in the back', mullet-style haircut?
I turn my head and angle the medicine chest mirror so I can see my hair from the side. Nooo! This can't be right! It is a mullet. That's why the 'Jerry Springer' look had seemed so familiar! The brassiness of the blond color had overshadowed the style. I had only made a dent in the problem by coloring my hair. I hadn't cured anything.
I open the cabinet drawer that holds my hair stuff and I paw through scrunchies and clippies and elastics and bows. There at the back is what I'm looking for. I pry out the five bobby pins that are stuck to the bottom.
Taking the tails of hair and twirling them tightly around my fingers, I make a 'mini bun' at the back of my head and secure it with the pins. I stare at my reflection from every side, searching for signs of mullet-ness. None. Whew! That's better.
I will have to call and get an appointment tomorrow. I know deep in my heart that I'll probably be disappointed with how it looks, but at least it won't be a mullet, and I'll just have to live with it till it grows out.
Now where did I put those salon coupons...?