A few weeks before my senior portraits were to be taken, my roots had grown a good three or four inches and I looked absolutely ridiculous. My mom was all, "Oh, hell no," and took me to the salon, at which I spent five hours getting foiled and fixed. The result was amazing, as the stylist had taken great care to color about five strands of hair at a time, alternating between my original hair color and the magical color of heat activation.
Fast forward twelve years. My hair regrew its v-card. Since it's quite fine, I barely use hair care products, save for the instances of leave-in conditioner and once-in-a-blue-moon mousse. Well, those and the seemingly never-ending bridesmaid hairdos. Seduced by a fantastically low fee, and the fact that my mom's hair has looked phenomenal lately, I journeyed to her stylist. (Just to be clear: I am NOT knocking this stylist, as she was super sweet and adorable, and clearly very good at her chosen profession. I just don't think that I was ready for the results of highlights of any kind.)
I don't think that I like it. I've lived with it for a week, and I am still unhappy. It's just not me. I want a little more subtlety, because even though the blond is pretty and youthful, it feels generic and fake on my head. Basically, I think that it's just the front part adding to my general pissiness.
2 comments:
I love you no matter how you look. You are beautiful... however I can say this because we have been friends for like 21 years... it is slightly DR. :)
em - It is SO DR. Dammit. Dammit!
Post a Comment