I look like Celine Dion
Awesome. So from my mom I received a gift certificate for highlights from my hairdresser, whom I love and cherish. I have had my hair highlighted by her before and I have always been very happy with the results. Yes. So yesterday, being one of my two “days off” (I totally resent that term since I typically spend the day doing INCOME TAX homework which – to me – represents my time being anything other than that which would be considered “off”… except yesterday I really did screw the pooch, but whatever) I made an appointment do have the deed done.
I arrive, things go as normal. There is banter between Lisa and I, we talk about our weight, our dysfunctional families (apparently hers communicates by yelling as well: I am not alone!) and I watch her deride the young gentleman that works there who, up until that day, I assumed was gay. Apparently he is not. Apparently, he is as straight as an arrow like all the other effeminate young men that work in upscale hair salons I know. I must take my Gaydar 3000 to Future Shop to get it tweaked. Where was I? Right, the hair. So she paints my hair various colors and sticks me under the dryer, offers me a biscotti, and leaves me to mull over the critical Refundable Dividend Tax on Hand calculation which is just another device God, or Allah, or whatever Great Deity exists created with the sole intention of pissing me off and fostering the onslaught of a vicious case of ADD and Tourettes. Twenty minutes of trying to drown out the incessant chatter and derisive insults being hurled about the joint (is anyone else’s house of beauty akin to this?) I am pulled from under the dryer and taken back to have my hair washed. The prelude to this involves Lisa pulling the papers from my head and throwing them in the general direction of her uber-heterosexual sidekick. My hair is washed, I am dried and primped. A discussion ensues of how to get the chick magnet’s roommate to clean up after herself. My suggestion to take all her dirty dishes and put them in her bed is met with much cheering and excitement. I politely request that my name be left out of said hijinks. And voila, there I am. I look like Gloria Macarenko, except younger, hotter and blonder. I actually look nothing like Gloria Macarenko. That was a really bad example. My hair is a work of multi-colored, chic, richly hued art. I feel fantastic. I pay the astronomical bill and return home and do what single people do when they’re feeling particularly sexy: work out; attempt a gourmet dinner that sets off the smoke detector; pry my friend for all the salacious gossip that he heard about me at my birthday party; think about how hot I’m going to look to my compatriots at work the next day.
And then it happened: I showered. I tend to do this from time to time. I try to remember the steps my hairdresser took to make me look like a contender on America’s Next Top Model (I hate Tyra). She used mousse – I have that! She used a 1” straightening iron – I don’t have that, but I bet it’s not integral. She used wax… I have candles? After a fruitless bout of primping and preening I miss my bus. I look like some mid-Western soccer mom, like Meredith Baxter with a bob. What has happened to my hotness? What the hell is it that my hairdresser does that is so entirely different from what I am able to master? Goddamnit!
I go to work. My first compliment is good, he really likes it. I say the jury is out, I feel it’s too flashy. He wants me to stick with it. Some more feedback from another coworker: he likes my hair with the reddish tinge, but he’s biased, because he likes red hair. What does that have to do with anything? I am supposed to tailor my hair color to his sexual preferences? I start to bristle, but then remember that I advised to him to let his hair grow because it looked better, and he took my advice, so who is objectifying whom? My CFO’s response is a bellow: did you do something to your hair? I ignore him. Unabashed, he comes into my office to harangue me. He seems ambivalent to the whole color issue and we end up swapping hair coloring stories, which turns out to be a bit of a bonding moment. Cool. The head honcho comes in and asks if my hair is lighter and I confess that it is. He tells me I can’t slip anything by him, to which I reply that one of his subordinates picked up on my hair color roughly three hours ago, so he’s a little slow up the uptake. This may have been a career limiting move.
At any rate, I’m sure there will be more feedback. I’m sure people will be told to take their feedback and shove it. Angry blondes have more fun. I need to go shopping now for some “product” for my hair. I understand 1” straighteners are on sale at London Drugs. Sigh.
I arrive, things go as normal. There is banter between Lisa and I, we talk about our weight, our dysfunctional families (apparently hers communicates by yelling as well: I am not alone!) and I watch her deride the young gentleman that works there who, up until that day, I assumed was gay. Apparently he is not. Apparently, he is as straight as an arrow like all the other effeminate young men that work in upscale hair salons I know. I must take my Gaydar 3000 to Future Shop to get it tweaked. Where was I? Right, the hair. So she paints my hair various colors and sticks me under the dryer, offers me a biscotti, and leaves me to mull over the critical Refundable Dividend Tax on Hand calculation which is just another device God, or Allah, or whatever Great Deity exists created with the sole intention of pissing me off and fostering the onslaught of a vicious case of ADD and Tourettes. Twenty minutes of trying to drown out the incessant chatter and derisive insults being hurled about the joint (is anyone else’s house of beauty akin to this?) I am pulled from under the dryer and taken back to have my hair washed. The prelude to this involves Lisa pulling the papers from my head and throwing them in the general direction of her uber-heterosexual sidekick. My hair is washed, I am dried and primped. A discussion ensues of how to get the chick magnet’s roommate to clean up after herself. My suggestion to take all her dirty dishes and put them in her bed is met with much cheering and excitement. I politely request that my name be left out of said hijinks. And voila, there I am. I look like Gloria Macarenko, except younger, hotter and blonder. I actually look nothing like Gloria Macarenko. That was a really bad example. My hair is a work of multi-colored, chic, richly hued art. I feel fantastic. I pay the astronomical bill and return home and do what single people do when they’re feeling particularly sexy: work out; attempt a gourmet dinner that sets off the smoke detector; pry my friend for all the salacious gossip that he heard about me at my birthday party; think about how hot I’m going to look to my compatriots at work the next day.
And then it happened: I showered. I tend to do this from time to time. I try to remember the steps my hairdresser took to make me look like a contender on America’s Next Top Model (I hate Tyra). She used mousse – I have that! She used a 1” straightening iron – I don’t have that, but I bet it’s not integral. She used wax… I have candles? After a fruitless bout of primping and preening I miss my bus. I look like some mid-Western soccer mom, like Meredith Baxter with a bob. What has happened to my hotness? What the hell is it that my hairdresser does that is so entirely different from what I am able to master? Goddamnit!
I go to work. My first compliment is good, he really likes it. I say the jury is out, I feel it’s too flashy. He wants me to stick with it. Some more feedback from another coworker: he likes my hair with the reddish tinge, but he’s biased, because he likes red hair. What does that have to do with anything? I am supposed to tailor my hair color to his sexual preferences? I start to bristle, but then remember that I advised to him to let his hair grow because it looked better, and he took my advice, so who is objectifying whom? My CFO’s response is a bellow: did you do something to your hair? I ignore him. Unabashed, he comes into my office to harangue me. He seems ambivalent to the whole color issue and we end up swapping hair coloring stories, which turns out to be a bit of a bonding moment. Cool. The head honcho comes in and asks if my hair is lighter and I confess that it is. He tells me I can’t slip anything by him, to which I reply that one of his subordinates picked up on my hair color roughly three hours ago, so he’s a little slow up the uptake. This may have been a career limiting move.
At any rate, I’m sure there will be more feedback. I’m sure people will be told to take their feedback and shove it. Angry blondes have more fun. I need to go shopping now for some “product” for my hair. I understand 1” straighteners are on sale at London Drugs. Sigh.
posted by Duder at 12:18 PM
2 Comments:
I bet you look like Halle Berry in Swordfish. Only clothed, and caucasion. I don't know how stylist's do it, it's one of those mysteries, like the Caramilk bar...
O.k., one more thing, did you notice that on your profile page, the Man has already changed your age....bastard
Post a Comment
<< Home