Yesterday I sought refuge from my hair disaster in a new salon. My daughter’s preschool teacher told me about her cousin who cuts hair, and since her teacher’s hair looked evenly cut and presentable, I took her cousin’s name and called her salon. Lucky me, she had an opening!
When I walked in and asked for Amanda, I’ll admit I did hesitate a bit when the girl (trust me, I have underwear older than she is) with black hair and blue highlights, a lip ring and tattoos, said, “I’m Amanda.” With as much authority as I could muster without an undertone of bitchiness, I said to her before sitting down, “Look. I am forty-something and I can’t pull off anything too crazy. I’d like to look updated but not trendy. Got it?” She got it.
Amanda was a good listener and an even better stylist. Forty minutes later I was washed, cut, styled and on my way. Now I look a little like Victoria Beckham’s older, darker-haired, less-fit and much poorer second cousin, once removed.
And for those of you who called or emailed your hair horror stories or asked for a picture of my bad hair: Thank you for sharing and NO, I am not posting a photo of me with Cher-hair. It’s taken me two days to stop singing “If I could turn back time…”