New 'Do

If you happen to be a male sweet reader who wanders onto my blog now and again, take notes. If you're ever in doubt on what to get your special lady friend for a gift, think SALON.
OK Ladies, let's talk hair.
What is it about a new cut or updated color that makes us feel so...Va-Va-Voom-ish? Is it the softer than usual tresses? The way the blow out always looks better than whatever we attempt at home? Is it that no matter what the box promises, the color NEVER looks as lush and glamorous as when we pay someone else to do it? Whatever it is, my new colorist is my new BFF.
It has been five long years since I had my hair professionally done. Crazy right? But like a good OBGYN, or Chinese take -out, finding a stylist you love is tough. All it takes is one bad experience (post yours below in the comments!), and the relationship is over. I'm quite fickle when it comes to salons and usually rarely see the same person three times in a row. I do have a great stylist here in town, within walking distance actually, who does an amazing job on my hair cuts. She always tells me the truth, and has even talked me out of a few cuts. She is a little pricey (for me), but I only see her every 4 -5 months, and it's so worth it. I always leave her chair feeling the need to shake my head from side to side as if in slow motion and tousle my full bodied locks every few minutes to show off how fantastic my hair looks. But, I've never let her color me. Not even when she pointed out my gray "highlights" weren't doing me any favors, and that I was too young to show them off with such audacity. Never having developed a love of the expensive salon coloring, I was happy to DIY my hair with whatever box I had a coupon for. This had been working, with less effectiveness in the last few years until i realized that I hadn't even made it 3 weeks since coloring and already my face was framed with sparkling silver. And I was two toned to boot. It was time to call in the professionals.
I had been sitting on a gift card for over a year and a half for a fancy shmancy salon in the local mall. I just didn't feel right going there. It seemed so up-ity. Often, while walking passed the salon on various mall excursions I would see the women in the salon, dressed in robes, sipping their complimentary beverage, thumbing through a magazine while waiting to be led back to an overpriced hairdo. I usually laughed at these women for being so predictable and cliche, because I'm tragically hip that way, and I'm all about avoiding the high maintenance stereotype.
Unfortunately, my premature graying thrust me into a whole new territory. I wanted to be one of those high maintenance cliche chicks. I wanted a complimentary beverage.
Upon making my appointment, I blurted out how terrible my hair looked from my own hand and that I would wear a hat when I arrived so as not to upset the other clients.While I was reassured this wasn't necessary, I wore one anyway. With a super nervous tremor in my voice, I announced my presence to the host, who was overjoyed that this was my first time there and thanked me, repeatedly, for trying this salon out. What do you even say to that? It was like three minutes of "thank you", "No, thank you". Awkward. He led me to my changing room, to don my smockish robe and check my sweater. I felt silly, but kinda swanky too. I mean, they thought my $20 Target sweater was important enough to check. I immediately lamented standing in line for 10 minutes at Starbucks for a machiatto when he asked if I would like any coffee, or a "water with lemon, perhaps". He actually said "perhaps".
As I was seated in the reception area, waiting for my turn at an overpriced hairdo I couldn't help but mock myself and the situation I was in. Sitting there, one of those high maintenance women I make fun of, with my robe, and my magazine. And then my name was called and I was given access to the promised land. The colorists are in the back of the salon, and this salon was huge. They have a day spa, stylists, tables to wait and sip your coffee, or water, perhaps. I saw primping everywhere and for a split second I felt as if I belonged here in this place of adult women who make time to get facials, and high end haircuts and Brazilian waxes.
But as I sat in that super comfortable salon chair,I started to feel like a fraud. When asked what I wanted to do with my hair, I panicked. I mean, I had already told the receptionist... was I being quizzed? I let out a long breathe and confided that my premature gray had led me to this point. It had been 5 long years since my last professional color, and I had never, NEVER, in my adult life had my hair highlighted. I'm 36 for craps sake. I felt it was time. I don't know if it was the high from walking through the salon, or the adrenaline, but when she asked what color I wanted for my highlights, I blurted out red, like fire. We discussed hair color and technique and the foils started to line my head.
We talked about other things, the colorist and I. We talked about what we do for fun, and roller derby, and pets. We talked about how to handle friends with douchey husbands, and Botox.
And then the foils came out, and as she was blow drying my hair perfectly, as if she had known me forever, adding a curl here, and volume there and talking me though the entire process, I got a glimpse of what other women see when they look into her mirror. Transformation. My silver was gone, the color was perfect and my fire red highlights were sexy. I looked, and felt, 5 years younger. I seriously almost teared up.
I can't explain the self esteem boost a great trip to the salon gives us. But I can testify that that's why we spend the money. I will do it again. I am a believer in the colorists now. I can't go back to the box. I just can't.
I strutted out of the mall that day, my head high, my face aglow, my hat in my purse. I'm now officially "high maintenance".