It all started with a haircut.
I needed one. Desperately. But I' a mom, so I usually wait until I look like a curly 'Cousin It' before I go- just to make sure the money is worth it.
My husband had other ideas.
He didn't want me to look like the Shaggy D.A. for an upcoming writer's conference. He wanted me to actually look nice. So he made me an appointment at a new salon instead of the cheapo one I usually go to- and hate.
Why do I go to a salon I hate? Because the price is right. I just hold off going because I know their idea of 'trim' is my idea of 'bald'. Since I have hypothyroidism, my hair (at least in the back) grows slower than the I.Q. points of Congress. Yet the front grows really fast, hence the 'Cousin It' persona. I was seriously thinking of doing a comb-back; like a comb-over for guys but mine would be brushed back like Lady Godiva to hide the fact that the back of my head was a complete mess.
Reluctantly I went into the salon, expecting to look like a shorn sheep. An expensive shorn sheep.
After making everyone in the salon laugh (it's good to make the people in charge of your hair happy), I asked with a smile if she knew what I meant by 'trim' vs. 'trimming the dead ends.' This is a trick question! But she answered (and showed me via my own hair) just how much a trim was- less than a quarter of an inch. As for the dead ends? 'Oh, you don't need to worry 'bout that- the trim will take care of the dead ends.' she said.
Finally- someone who understood me!
I relaxed a little and let her do her magic.
My hair is naturally curly. it's also not dyed. I don't like messing with it for fear of it falling out from all those treatments. If I was going to go gray, I wanted it to just happen gradually.
At least until I saw my first flash of platinum reflected off of the salon lights. Twice.
As she cut my hair I noticed a small blaze right in the front and center of my forehead- and another tendril on the right side, in the dead center. Not a scattering of hairs, mind you, but a single curl in the front and side of my head.
I had gray spots!
If I wasn't gasping in shock, I'd have thought it was kind of pretty. It was almost platinum-blondish type white (which is cool) instead of that dull kind of white reserved for zombies. But they showed up in spots- not gradually.
Dear Lord, I'm a reverse Dalmatian!
I wondered if maybe shaving my head would be considered the new 'sexy' for women. Probably not. I couldn't even get those tendrils cut, because I'd have holes in my head! Oh why, why, why couldn't they just scatter all over my noggin instead of gathering in one spot like old ladies to a Bingo hall?
At this point, I'm still not going to dye my hair. It's still curly and fluffy, and the hair-dresser did a great job on it! I'll be going back to her until I die.
As for the spots? I'll have to get used to them- but at least it makes good fodder for writing!
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