No Good, Very Bad, and Really Horrible Hair Day

When I was 18, I could have passed for a prostitute.

It was not because I wore short skirts.  (In my defense, mini skirts WERE in fashion.)

And, it was not because I applied too much make up.  In fact, at this point in my make-up career, I had not discovered the wonders of mascara or of  tweezers ( I think Bert of Ernie and Bert, Sesame Street  fame would correctly describe my brows).

No,  when I was 18, I looked like a hooker because of my hair.

As a Florida girl in the early nineties,  my hair was long.  Very long.  Middle of my back long.  It fell in lovely, long waves and was chestnut colored with honey highlights compliments of the Florida sun.  Looking back,  my hair color was beautiful.  To die for really, but did I appreciate it?

No.  I did not.

So, the summer before my freshman year in college, I decided to color my virgin hair.

I asked for some low lights.  I opted for some caramel colored tresses to mix in with my own natural highlights.  I pointed at pictures in magazines.  I pointed at color charts in the salon.  I was confident in my decision.

That is, I was confident until the stylist wheeled my chair around to the mirror for my tah-dah moment.

Except, there was no tah-dah.

Just crickets.

Then tears.

Then snot. 

And, more snot.

Instead of the caramel-y streaked tresses in my vision, my hair was white.

Madonna, in the Blond Ambition tour, white.


(Compliments of madonna-online.ch)

Skunk stripe white.


(compliments of Looney Toons and above mentioned gallery.)

It wasn't pretty my friends.

Not pretty.

I cried the whole way home, the rest of the day, and finally I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, I woke up and momentarily forgot my hair fiasco.  Then, I walked past a mirror, caught a glimpse of my unrecognizable self, and commenced crying again.

With my very dark brows, dark roots, and olive skin, I looked very much like a street walker . . .and I had no one to blame but myself.

That wasn't even the worst part.

When I went to work that morning to my camp counselor job, one of the 3rd graders started to cry when she saw me. 

Bad.

When I asked her gently what was wrong, she wailed, "My grandma's hair turned white like yours when she got cancer.  You must have cancer!" 

Worse.

When I called the salon to make an appointment to fix my hair, they explained that I needed to wait at least a week with my hooker hair.  They did not want to be responsible for my hair falling out.

Worst.


I had hooker hair for a week, and I vowed never to go blond again.  My only regret about my experience?

I did not let my mom get photographic evidence.


******Linking to Mama Kat's workshop.  Read more BAD HAIR DAYS there.*****