At the salon on Monday:
What I Said: Hi! Please correct the unsightly off-center blob of white bird poop highlights on top of my head. I'd like to go brown. Maybe all brown. What do you think of that?
What Stylist Said: Hmm... I think you need some highlights to add dimension. *rakes fingernails through my hair*
What I Said: Okay then, but I want my hair to be mostly brown with a few subtle, natural looking highlights - and just on the top.
What Stylist Heard: I want you to make me look like Cruella De Vil.
I should have payed attention in the Earth to Hair Stylist communications course the college semester I turned 21, instead of pounding Keystone and dancing until even my toes were sweaty at Popeye's in Old Sacramento.
Regardless of who I turn to for coiffure 411, I always get the same assistance: ridiculousness. One hair genius even managed to deposit white spots all about my crown, effectively leoprifying me. That was the one and only time I called back, hemmed, hawed, coughed, gurgled and eventually managed to choke out a correction request.
I've been to the Aveda Salon in Palm Springs, a fancy place in the back room of a florist shop in Downtown Sacramento, SuperCuts, StupidCuts, the office of a Chinese deli in San Francisco, and a place I saw advertised on tv that promised to make me look like a rock star. Not just my hair, me.
Do I look like a rock star yet?
