I remove my sunglasses, adjust my eyes to the light, and I'm instantly greeted with multiple " Hello, would you like some coffee? Or some wine?" The salon staff knows me so well. I opt for coffee. Life seems good.
As I sit in the chair facing the mirror and the stylist behind me attempts to flip my hairspray and gel stiff hair this way and that way, and under his breath wonders how much product I go through every month and why am I not buying it from his salon, we chat about the different blues in the world.
Because that's what I want my new hair color to be - blue. Radiant blue. Bright blue. Shock blue. The kind of blue that is nothing but blue.
I invoke the sky, the Blue Bulls, Kelly Osbourne, that woman from all of those cheap-o cable shows like 10 years Younger in 10 days, and that one where they swap salons (although that one gets a blank stare from the stylist), and what's her face who has/had blue hair. You know, that rock chick.
I tell him how I hate purple just because, and never want to go purple again, and how I couldn't stand the black hair because I looked like one of those monks with that little bald spot on top every time my hair grew just a little to reveal the very blonde roots, and how I would just like for the hair to be blue. End of story.
So first he dyes my hair purple:
Which would have been fine were I over 60, owned one of the really fancy walkers, kept hard candy with me at all times in case my grandkids unexpectedly dropped in on me, and had asked the stylist to get rid of all of the grey in my hair no matter the cost.
But I specifically asked for no purple. I hate purple. It ranks right up there with orange, lice, snakes and war.
Then, while in a smidgen of panic (I can be an extremely frightening woman) the stylist decides he needs to add on a little more dye, allows for the hair somehow to turn black, and consequently enables me to channel Harry Potter for months to come:
All I need now is a decent wand and Accio Wine it will be. All the way.