cancellation. She could take me on Monday at 9:15. Yes! I can’t wait!
’Til next time,
V
June 12
I dropped Pete off at a sitter and raced to Boku. “You sure you want to do this?” Lauren asked, running her fingers through
my hair. “You really want to get rid of this gorgeous red?” Lauren—whose last name I don’t know despite the fact that she’s
been my stylist for three years—raked her fingers through my hair and looked doubtfully at my reflection.
“I’m positive,” I assured her. I told her that I was ready for a big change. Coloring my hair would be safer and easier to
reverse than cosmetic surgery. My hair was now nearly to my waist. I’d have long, sexy blond hair. I was absolutely ready
for this.
“Okay, then,” she said, apparently convinced. “Let’s get started.” She draped a silver vinyl cape around me. “You’ll make
a pretty blond, Valerie. And I can tell you from personal experience, blonds really do have more fun.” Lauren’s own platinum
was pulled back into a loose chignon. Another blond stylist chimed in: “You’ll never have to open another door for yourself.”
Then another piped up, “And you’ll never spend another Saturday night waiting by the phone.”
I stared at myself in the mirror. Oh, I was so ready for this. But three hours later, as Lauren blow-dried my newly blond
hair, I knew that something had gone horribly wrong. I glimpsed in the mirror for the first time (I had refused to look until
she was entirely done) and saw myself—at age ninety. The hair wasn’t platinum, it wasn’t blond. It was white. I looked like
a cross between Barbara Bush and Albert Einstein. My hair had somehow quadrupled in volume. Terrified, I reached up to touch
it. It wasn’t hair. It was hay. I wanted to vomit.
“What the hell happened?” I whispered, commanding myself not to cry.
“I don’t know,” Lauren said, staring at my head. “I don’t know.” She attempted to pull a comb through the hair and I heard
it crackle like twigs on a bonfire.
I told her to change it back. Immediately. “I am not leaving this place until my hair is red and normal again. Do you understand?”
“Okay. Okay.” Everyone was staring now, all the other stylists, all the women in all the chairs, the receptionists, the boyfriends,
the UPS guy, the manicurist, the massage therapist. The woman in the chair next to me whispered, “It’ll be okay. She’ll fix
it. Don’t worry.”
An hour later, as Lauren rinsed the dye from my hair, I asked her, “How does it look?” I was afraid to look in the mirror.
“Well … it
is
darker.”
I sat up and stared into the mirror. My hair was now the color of the bridesmaid dress I wore to my sister Teresa’s wedding.
Mauve.
I felt my stomach lurch. It was almost 3 P.M. I called Pete’s sitter and asked her to keep him until I got there. Lauren glopped on some more dye and stuck me under the
dryer. An hour later, my hair was the color of a dirty penny. I ran my fingers through it. My hair came out in wads. Wads
and wads and wads of dirty-penny-colored hair, as resilient as cotton candy. I started to cry.
“I don’t know what to say,” Lauren whispered, shaking her head. “I am so sorry, Val.”
I was sobbing now and I didn’t care who was watching. “I’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
Lauren gave me some kind of industrial strength conditioner and a plastic cap. She instructed me to put the conditioner on
my hair for an hour a day. “Your hair should be back to normal by Wednesday,” she told me.
I knew it was bullshit but I took the conditioner and the cap anyway.
It is now 11:17 P.M. and I’ve had the conditioner on my head for six hours. I’m praying that tomorrow my hair will be stronger. I don’t even care
what color it is. I just don’t want to lose my hair.
’Til next time,
V
June 13
When I woke up this morning, the plastic cap was filled with hair. The conditioner hadn’t
’Til next time,
V
June 12
I dropped Pete off at a sitter and raced to Boku. “You sure you want to do this?” Lauren asked, running her fingers through
my hair. “You really want to get rid of this gorgeous red?” Lauren—whose last name I don’t know despite the fact that she’s
been my stylist for three years—raked her fingers through my hair and looked doubtfully at my reflection.
“I’m positive,” I assured her. I told her that I was ready for a big change. Coloring my hair would be safer and easier to
reverse than cosmetic surgery. My hair was now nearly to my waist. I’d have long, sexy blond hair. I was absolutely ready
for this.
“Okay, then,” she said, apparently convinced. “Let’s get started.” She draped a silver vinyl cape around me. “You’ll make
a pretty blond, Valerie. And I can tell you from personal experience, blonds really do have more fun.” Lauren’s own platinum
was pulled back into a loose chignon. Another blond stylist chimed in: “You’ll never have to open another door for yourself.”
Then another piped up, “And you’ll never spend another Saturday night waiting by the phone.”
I stared at myself in the mirror. Oh, I was so ready for this. But three hours later, as Lauren blow-dried my newly blond
hair, I knew that something had gone horribly wrong. I glimpsed in the mirror for the first time (I had refused to look until
she was entirely done) and saw myself—at age ninety. The hair wasn’t platinum, it wasn’t blond. It was white. I looked like
a cross between Barbara Bush and Albert Einstein. My hair had somehow quadrupled in volume. Terrified, I reached up to touch
it. It wasn’t hair. It was hay. I wanted to vomit.
“What the hell happened?” I whispered, commanding myself not to cry.
“I don’t know,” Lauren said, staring at my head. “I don’t know.” She attempted to pull a comb through the hair and I heard
it crackle like twigs on a bonfire.
I told her to change it back. Immediately. “I am not leaving this place until my hair is red and normal again. Do you understand?”
“Okay. Okay.” Everyone was staring now, all the other stylists, all the women in all the chairs, the receptionists, the boyfriends,
the UPS guy, the manicurist, the massage therapist. The woman in the chair next to me whispered, “It’ll be okay. She’ll fix
it. Don’t worry.”
An hour later, as Lauren rinsed the dye from my hair, I asked her, “How does it look?” I was afraid to look in the mirror.
“Well … it
is
darker.”
I sat up and stared into the mirror. My hair was now the color of the bridesmaid dress I wore to my sister Teresa’s wedding.
Mauve.
I felt my stomach lurch. It was almost 3 P.M. I called Pete’s sitter and asked her to keep him until I got there. Lauren glopped on some more dye and stuck me under the
dryer. An hour later, my hair was the color of a dirty penny. I ran my fingers through it. My hair came out in wads. Wads
and wads and wads of dirty-penny-colored hair, as resilient as cotton candy. I started to cry.
“I don’t know what to say,” Lauren whispered, shaking her head. “I am so sorry, Val.”
I was sobbing now and I didn’t care who was watching. “I’ve got to get out of here. Now.”
Lauren gave me some kind of industrial strength conditioner and a plastic cap. She instructed me to put the conditioner on
my hair for an hour a day. “Your hair should be back to normal by Wednesday,” she told me.
I knew it was bullshit but I took the conditioner and the cap anyway.
It is now 11:17 P.M. and I’ve had the conditioner on my head for six hours. I’m praying that tomorrow my hair will be stronger. I don’t even care
what color it is. I just don’t want to lose my hair.
’Til next time,
V
June 13
When I woke up this morning, the plastic cap was filled with hair. The conditioner hadn’t
Similar Books
