Change Can Be Good

I wanted a change. Every once in a while I buy a new shade of nail polish, or revamp the way I do my make up. But this time I wanted something bigger. Maybe not as drastic as about six years ago when, after having been a blond my whole life, I suddenly died my hair bright red, but somewhere in that neighborhood. I didn’t want to go back to blonde. I didn’t want any other color. And there is not a whole lot else I could do. For a few months I played around with the idea of cutting bangs, but really the upkeep on those would be far too difficult and I would probably end up with my hair looking unkempt. And I can’t have that. At one point I cut my hair really short. It was cute. But I was a lot younger. Meaning everything was cute back then. And by everything was cute back then, I mean I thought everything was cute back then. I would offer some pictures for debate, but I don’t think I have any. So, in making a short story long, on a whim I decided to get a perm. And I really do mean on a whim. I was sitting in my Theory class and this was my thought process:
So this one man said this about that… note note note
This other man countered it with this other stuff… note note note
This third man combined the other two theories, added an extra one for good measure and said this… note note note
I should get a perm
This fourth man is from an entirely different school of thought and he said this other stuff… note note note
Oh look it’s break time… I am going to call the salon and make an appointment. And I did. And then I got a perm.
I have never gotten a perm before, so I wasn’t sure what it entailed. I knew there were curlers involved, and some type of solution. Apparently I have a lot of hair, so they had to use two solutions. What I hadn’t anticipated was that the whole thing would take over three hours. I got to the salon a little after five, and they said the tips of my hair were damaged and I needed a trim. I acquiesced, and the man got his shears out. He performed something that looked like the trimming of a bonsai tree with red strands flying every which way, and five minutes later my hair was “fixed.”
Then the fun started. He got out what looked to be about a hundred of the smallest curlers I have ever seen. I mean these things looked like they came out of a Barbie salon play boutique. He then proceeded to spray stuff all over my hair which he said was water, except it burned every time it touched my skin. And from my experience with showers I am pretty sure water doesn’t do that. Then he wrapped my hair in little pieces of paper at the tips and began using all the itsy bitsy curlers. I swear he wrapped each one of my hairs individually onto a different curler, or at least that it what it looked like. And it took him almost two hours to do this so I have reason to believe I was correct in my assessment. Then he poured two bottles of solution all over my head, put a giant bag over my hair and put me in this large helmet heat process machine thing. Apparently the heat was supposed to activate the solution in my hair and produce the desired curls. Translation: more burning.
I was a total trooper, and sat through this process for forty five minutes. After which his assistant took me over to the sink and began yanking the many curlers out. It took her almost as long as it took him to put them in, and did I mention all the yanking involved? If not, let me tell you, there was a lot of yanking. Translation: burning pain. Several hours passed, the salon had already closed, and they were attempting to get the solutions out of my hair, with three people washing and scrubbing at me like the place was about to burn down. They didn’t speak English so I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I have to admit, all the screaming and shouting was rather alarming. The dramatic arm gestures didn’t help alleviate my panic.
I asked if everything was okay, they all told me not to worry about it. When people say that is usually when I start to worry. A few minutes later they took me away from the sink, plopped me in front of the mirror and started massaging my hair. It was still wet, but they said they could not blow dry since more heat would damage my hair. As is I was in a hurry to get home, so I was perfectly happy leaving with wet hair, especially since it was still unbearably hot outside. As I was paying, the main lady said “don’t brush your hair this week, it might fall out.” Oh…
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