Hair Hell

Dante wrote that there were nine circles of hell.  For the past month or so, my hair has been in level 4, at least.  Contributing to this depth of suffering were pains like five months since my last cut and color, more grey hair than ever, freakish amounts of post pregnancy hair shedding, hair the perfect length for Daniel to grasp and hold onto with his vise grip and a very, very unfortunate bang burn compliments of my CHI flat iron.


Due to my ability to mask some of the problems (bobby pins tried their best with my bangs but it was a difficult job), Daniel’s refusal to take a bottle, lots of medical bills to pay off which sucked dry our disposable income and my embarrassing complacency to be a frumpy mom, I have put off a much needed hair appointment.  When I finally called the salon in order to schedule something on one of Jay’s days off, I learned that the girl I’ve been to the last two times is in China for a year.  So, I went with Walter, who happened to answer the phone and who I’ve since discovered is quite possibly the loudest talker in the entire world.


Walter was kind about my 4th level of hair hell and said he’d put me in paradise with a new cut and color.  I had pinned a haircut I liked of Sandra Bullock and a color example from Sienna Miller and he was impressed with my technology.  I should probably mention that Walter is 59 years old.  Not that he was old old.  Just...a different generation, you know?  In other words, I’m not sure the pictures helped much.


I do not look like either of these women

He put foils in for highlights and then colored the rest with what he called a dark gold and I swear, the lights in that salon made it look pretty.  I told him probably five times while I was there how much I liked the color.  Gone are the brassy blond streaks with dark roots.  Gone are the grey streaks increasing in number at the temples of my head.  The bangs...well...they are short.  But they have to be.  There wasn’t a lot he could do about that.


I was enjoying this new head of hair until my son, Sam, looked at me with an odd smile on his face and said, “Mom.   You look different.  Your hair is orange.”


Gah!  Worst sentence ever.


I went into my bathroom and indeed, there is an orangish hue to my hair.  The kind adjective is copper but I can’t call him a liar like I wanted to do.


What level does this put me in Dante’s Inferno now?  At least limbo.  I’m not out yet.