Serious book-related posts are put aside for today. Today, it’s all about the hair.
I’ve been going to the same hairdresser, Mary, for about fifteen years. Or maybe even longer, I’ve lost track at this point. She’s almost exactly the same age as I am, just a couple of months older, so I was really happy for her when she told me she was pregnant with her first child. And then, after I was happy for her, the reality of this situation for my little selfish self sunk in. Pregnancy means maternity leave. Maternity leave means Abby’s hair goes to pot.
Jim and I are very frugal people. We work long hours, and spend most of our free time fixing up the house ourselves or reading books taken out of the library or playing guitar (Jim) or surfing the web or watching DVDs taken out of the library (we don’t even have cable TV) – you get the idea. We don’t spend money on frivolous things. Except for one frivolous thing: my hair. I’ve offered to give it up, but Jim, who has to look at me on a regular basis, has pleaded that I please continue taking care of my hair. “It’s more professional,” he’ll argue, but I know that he also prefers me as a blonde.
I was a bit younger than I am now when Jim and I met, and still a blonde. Shortly before our wedding, Mary suggested that I might want to get highlights for the wedding, and I did, and they were fabulous. I looked like a movie star (in my own mind, at least), and I was hooked. They’re expensive, though, so I usually wait way way longer to get my highlights done than I should (Mary always chastises me about my dark roots), but oh how wonderful it is when I’ve got fresh highlights. Some might argue that I should color my hair myself, but those people don’t know how incredibly clutzy I am. I don’t blow-dry my hair or use mousse, because I can’t handle it. Back in college, my friend Mieke once asked me to cut her bangs for her, and I ended up snipping her ear – lots of blood. The idea of me applying permanent hair dye to my own head…scary.
So I’ve been in a dark roots dilemma recently. The hair is looking worse and worse, and I’ve been torn about what to do. Mary is on maternity leave until early April. I’d love to have Joe, one of the salon’s owners, do my highlights (he did those first pre-wedding highlights for me), but I don’t want to hurt the feelings of George, the other salon owner, who usually answers the phone there and knows my voice. “I can stick it out!” I tell myself, then I catch a glimpse in the mirror and those freakish roots jump out at me, screaming, “We look terrible! Terrible, I tell you!!!”
Last night my sister coached me through which hair color to buy, convincing me that I can do this. Then Jim came home from band practice and looked horrified at the thought of me dyeing my own hair. “Just call and make an appointment with Joe,” he told me, “and if you get George, explain to him that Joe did your hair once before and it looked great and you’d like to try him again.”
But when it came time to make the appointment today, I botched it all up.  George answered, I made the appointment with Joe, forgot my carefully rehearsed line that Jim had written for me, and ended up hurting George’s feelings. It was obvious – he usually says hi to me on the phone and asks how I’m doing, but today he just confirmed my appointment and said goodbye.  I feel terrible. Maybe I should have just stuck it out with the dark roots; it would have been better than hurting George’s feelings.
There are days when I wish I didn’t worry so much about other people’s feelings. Life would be a lot easier if I could just bulldoze through without caring. And I certainly wouldn’t have miserable looking hair today. Sigh.
