Today, I decided to go have a stylist throw dye at my head again. It had turned pink in the months since I had them put the bright red in. The tall, robust stylist gave the girliest squeal when I said I wanted red and black this time. For some reason, "crazy" colours make them happy.
I have to say, thank fuck for mp3 players and mobile IRC. There are few things more boring than sitting under a dryer for 30 - 45 minutes with no entertainment options in sight than ancient hair style books and year old Cosmopolitan magazines. Finally, the cut happened, then the blow drying. Now, this is sort of my own fault for not saying, "Please, no product. Please, no blow drying."
I said, "Cut it messy, easier that way." That part was all good, but then after about 15 minutes of product, hair scrunching, teasing, blow drying, and who knows what else he was doing, I got turned around and was able to behold myself. The '80s were alive and well, and they were staring me in the face. "Thank you!" I said with a great deal of cheer, paid, and found the nearest rest room. I needed a brush, but fingers had to do. Here's the result, and picture it four times as big for the effect as it was when I wandered out of the salon:
Next time, I'm going to have to speak up about the blow drying, teasing, and hair spray. I can still smell hair spray propellant. Good times.