This article is for sympathy. It’s for healing. It’s for support.
Because, friends… I had the most awful experience going to a hairdresser. If I was to use one word? Traumatic. One emotion? Defeated. Some of you will know of that which I speak.
Please see below:
I know, I know. There are people with real problems out there and I sound like a drama queen. However, at that point when the bleach had done it’s damage, I was feeling pretty crap and angry. Look at me. I MEAN LOOK AT MY HAIR EVERYONE.
It all started when I signed up to one of those daily deal promotions. You know, the ones where you can save a heap of money on experiences/services/crap you don’t need?
The first few days were a series of all-you-can-eat Chinese banquet deals, which were tempting, but I knew I was after something specific. My limited budget was not about to be squandered on some dumplings, no matter their deliciousness or excellent value for money.
I waited patiently until there it was. An excellent hair package deal AND in a nearby suburb. I was like a magpie to a VB can on the side of the highway. The deal was bought. The appointment was booked. I WAS GOING TO BE PRETTY.
You may at this point be saying, ‘Regina, you get what you pay for’ or ‘always go by word of mouth when it comes to hair.’ To that I say, yes. Yes! OH GOD, YES! But I’m on a budget and dammit, I’m entitled to some highlights. So sometimes a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
How was I to know that it was in fact Satan underneath that Chemical Blonde pixie cut and jeggings?
My appointment was at 9am, and I had somewhere to be at 2pm. Yep, I had sure planned this well – five hours is more than enough time to get my hair done. EXCEPT, I forgot to take into account that the salon I was going to was a time vortex, devoid of the space/time continuum rules that us mere mortals are bound to follow.