What Color is Your Hair Today?

It'll definitely be another 17 years before I let a stylist touch my hair again. I dreaded going to work Monday of last week with my shiny blonde locks. So I pulled all my thick hair back as tight as I could (Lilith-style, for you Frasier fans), rolled it up, and tucked it into one of those teethy hair clamp thingies. (Man, what are those called?) I braved the trip into work.

I practically ran past the receptionist desk to my boss's office, head down. As soon as I went in, I heard Mark coming down the hallway. Mark is the last person I wanted to see my hair (the jokes would never end), so I closed the door behind me. I did not want to be seen. I said "Look at this" to my boss (Tom), pointing at the top of my head. "It's different," he said euphemistically. I told him I was going to do whatever it took to have it fixed as soon as possible. (Fortunately, Tom is cool and lets me take off work whenever I have to.)

I spent the morning hiding in my office. When I needed a water refill, I called my friend Chris, whose office is two aisles over, and he kindly went to the kitchen and got me a refill. My friend Ed (a man's man), of course, liked my new blonde hair. Said it went well with my coloring. Did not! Trust me. I hated it.

Eventually I did have to use the restroom, which I speed-walked to, head down. Sure enough, Mark was heading toward me. There was no avoiding him, so I just kept walking past him with my eyes downward and a stern warning of "Don't even think about talking to me today." (Mark is one of the funniest guys I know, so I can say that to him. Besides, his son is a famous Hollywood script writer with lots of celebrity friends, so Mark by now has seen it all.) I can't believe he actually let me pass without a word. Whew!

I waited until a few minutes after 10:00AM, when the hair salon opened, then called them. I explained to Monica that I needed my hair fixed, and I needed it fixed today by someone who knows what they're doing. She said Amy wasn't in, but that she'd call her at home and have her call me back at work. Amy is the owner.

Sure enough, Amy called back right away—on her day off, no less. I explained to her that I was hiding in my office and just couldn't live with this unwanted dye job. (Excuse me, bleach job.) Unfortunately, she told me, there was no one to fix my hair that day (I'd requested someone with more experience in the hair coloring arena than the girl who'd botched the job twice already). She said she'd work on it and call me back.

And, in the best example of customer service (and the only good one I can offer this year), Amy called back and told me to meet her at the shop at 3:30.

I left work that afternoon and went to the salon. This was much more important than earning a living, being a responsible adult, and putting food on the table. I was not going to last one more day as a blonde. As I confessed to my boss Tom in the email I sent him letting him know I was leaving work early, "This is the first time I've ever missed work for a bad hair day." Tom, of course, has no hair, but he remained sympathetic and managed to crack a joke in his reply.

I was surprised to find that the salon was closed when I got there. They close early on Mondays. Amy showed up with her pleasant 14-year-old son Cole. It was one of the first gorgeous, warm, sunny, breezy spring days of the season, and this store owner left home on her day off to come in to work and fix my hair at no charge. I have to tell you, I was impressed.

To make a long story short, about an hour and 40 minutes later I was a brunette again. Although I'd told Amy that I liked the color of the top highlights (I just didn't want so many of them), she still darkened the highlights. When she said she was going to darken them, I was like, "Ok, but just a tad. I do want some highlights." I even showed her the same two pictures in their style magazine that I'd shown Courtney twice before.

Nonetheless, in the end, it was almost back to where it was when Courtney first attempted to highlight my hair. Wrong color, wrong shade. Not even noticeable. Now you can see a couple highlights in the front – the rest are red. Sigh.

Although I totally appreciated Amy's efforts (she really went above and beyond to try to make her customer happy), my hair still wasn't right. This time I didn't say anything. I was just happy to have brown hair again. I was going to buy some $13 hair straightening cream from her, and Amy gave it to me at no charge "for all the inconvenience." I tipped her $20 anyway, for taking the time to come in on her day off.

Actually, I gave the tip to her nice son Cole since she was reluctant to accept. I'd really enjoyed talking with Cole while I was in the chair and felt badly that he'd spent this gorgeous afternoon doing salon chores. They were on their way to the mall to buy shorts, so I told him to buy himself something at the mall. That made him happy. "You are so awesome!"

Great customer service experience. However, here I am, $175 later, with wrecked hair that took me two long years to grow out. And when I say wrecked, I mean really messed up. You have no idea what bleach does to your hair. It is horrible to wash—I'm not even sure how to describe the coarse, brittle, straw-like, tangled mess that I can't begin to run my fingers through in the shower. If feels terrible.

Two years! Two long years of agonizing hair-growing-out awkwardness. Ruined. I miss my real hair.

My friend Ed at work is a huge Onion fan. He sent me this link yesterday: Area Woman's Entire Day Ruined By Bangs. I think it's just about the funniest thing I've read in a long time. Enjoy.