A Hairy Situation

Here's a little horror story for your next night around the campfire.  It's really more for the ladies (and maybe the gay guys), but is also an ode to all the supportive boyfriends who have to suffer the emotional roller coaster of a woman's bad hair day.

There is nothing on God's green earth that can jack up your psyche more than bad fucking hair, except maybe being molested or raped or neglected or any other variation of abuse  - okay, I guess there are a number of things that can mess with your head besides bad hair; but hair is definitely up there in the top ten. 

If you're lucky, you can escape the permanence of a dye job gone horribly wrong, or - worse yet - the dreaded botched haircut.  What I'm trying to say is, if your bad hair is confined to a day, thank your lucky stars.  I've recently been reacquainted with this very sense of gratitude after two humbling days of unholy hair.  If you think I'm being vapid, you're probably right, but also, fuck off.  This shit's traumatic, as I'll explain.

It was Saturday morning.  The air was calm.  There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate that this would be a day of reproach.  I was on my way to get my hair did at this little place in the Valley, one I had been to twice before without incident.  I met my girl and (I think this it where trumpets sounded, the ground beneath me cracked open and all Hell broke loose), I said: "I wanna bump it up this time." 

Things started out normal enough, despite a subconscious premonition spurning a growing apprehension in the cockles of my being.

I'll spare you the details and just cut to the chase - THIS is what I ended up with:

My mother was quick to point out that the yellow rubber band holding my hair up was virtually undetectable against my Valley porn-star-o-rific new do.  In fact, I look like I'm either cringing at my bad dye job, or awaiting the "money shot."  And it's not just that I look like a Corn Pop, but hiding underneath this glowing monstrosity was RED.  All I needed to complete my tore up new look was a set of acrylics and a pair of ripped fish nets, and I could dust off the 'ol resume and walk into Vivid tomorrow if I wanted to.  I've got the experience…

…But that's my PLAN B, and as long as I've got a roof over my head, there's no need to drop to my knees (unless it's to pray).  You better believe I was praying this was just a nightmare, but alas, this was my reality - confirmed the second I saw my boyfriend (who, subsequently has the same size hands as I do).  He didn't have to say a word, his face said it all: You belong in a Gonzo film.  But what he actually said was, "Why don't you put a hat on, and we'll go get some dinner."  And then later, "Why don't you keep the hat on, and we'll have some sex."

Sex!?  Right.  This hair put a serious hitch in my giddy up.  I couldn't stand to look at myself, so unless we were talking doggy-style with my head down in a pillow, sex was the last thing on my radar.  My dyed hair killed my libido.  I needed to fix this, stat.

I felt divinely guided to Kazumi, a color correction Ninja in Beverly Hills, or in other words, NOT in the Valley.  Only problem was she couldn't see me until Tuesday, which meant I had to log a day at the office, which under normal circumstances wouldn't be too terrible, but I work with a Wolf pack of highly intelligent, quick-witted writers. 

So this is how Monday shook out.  My Fidel hat only made me look like one of Castro's minions for a day.  

The next day I took a "personal day" (legit, cuz I was having a freaking crisis), mustered up my pride, and walked right past Mila Kunis on my way in to the salon.  The place immediately felt pricier.

The most pleasant surprise may have been that I wasn't greeted the way Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman was greeted the second she stepped foot inside that boutique on Rodeo Drive, although I did earn a few double-takes.  As opposed to condescension, I was showered with pity.  A consummate professional, Kazumi kept her game face on while assessing my hair (she wore plastic gloves) while the front desk ran a credit check to make sure I could pay for my appointment (I looked that cheap).   Then she did a side flip out of sight before repelling down a rope from a trap door in the ceiling with a bowl of toner.  (Okay, I totally made that up, but it's how I imagine a hair Ninja would move.)

I'll admit, I was skeptical at first:

(Ugh, time for Botox again.)

But realistically, it couldn't get any worse than it was.  My only choice was to go with it.

They dyed me, dried me, and washed me three times.  Then they topped me off with a five-step treatment process, spun me around around in my chair, sprinkled me with fairy dust, and this was the end result:

P.S. Check out the size of those hands

$$$$ and a $$ parking ticket later, I could finally breathe again.  This picture doesn't even do it justice, and it's a process (I'm still a few restorative "surgeries" away from being back to normal), but more than fixing my hair, Kazumi the hair Ninja saved my sex life.  For that, I am eternally grateful.