OhChristOhShitOhFuck
I think it might be time to look for a new hairdresser.
Remember how a couple of months ago he gave me a mohawk? We had a conversation after that about how it was a bit severe, and as a lady approaching a certain age, we need to soften things up a bit. Well, today he went one better than the mohawk.
A couple of haircuts ago, I mentioned that my colour looked dull. I don't customarily colour my hair, but it's getting duller the older I get and it needed a little bit of a lift. We discussed doing a little bit of highlighting here and there (less is more, darling), just to brighten things up a bit and today was the day to do it, ostensibly so I looked a little better for this trip to Brisbane next weekend. Where I will meet tpbrcombo's Mother and many of his friends for the first time, and attend his best friend's wedding.
I thought I was getting a few foils here and there, but he proceeded with a different technique - he smeared the colour potion all over his hands and lightly ran his hands over the top of my hair (which is quite short), so I got just a little light tipping all over. The colour we discussed earlier was a blonde with a little bit of warmth in it. Something that would tone in with what I have. I was hoping to get something like the natural gold highlights I used to have.
I thought it was all going ok until I saw the finished result. He went with a whiter, more icy blonde, which contrasts far too much, I think, with my darker blonde. And it looks like he got a bit more than just the tips. I think he was going for a kind of 'ooh, dramatic, artsy fartsy professional' look. I don't know why. I just wanted a little brightening; I wasn't making a statement about being all edgy and wankerish. I think I look like a big old bogan. I look like I went down to the supermarket and bought a bottle of White King, took it back to my home at the bogan caravan park, went down to the bogan caravan park amenities block and applied it my bogan self to my bogan hair with my bogan toothbrush and smoked Winfield Reds while I waited for it to work. I look like I should be named Shazza. I look like I should be screaming obscenities in a public place at my three smudgy-faced children, all of whom have different fathers, and who are named Schapelle, Mercedes and Braydon.
Maybe it will look better when I have some makeup on.
Maybe it will look better by next weekend.
Maybe I will just wear a hat.