This is a running/workout/fitness blog (well, maybe), so let’s get this out of the way. Today I had a date with the elliptical and I took advantage of him. I dripped sweat all over and panted heavily. I then moved onto yoga where I Downward Dogged and Warrior 2’d like no one’s business. It was sloppy and wet. And, it rocked.
Also, today as I made my way around the world, I thought about a couple of things.
I like to think I wake up, put my slippers on and drink my coffee expecting the best from the day. That I give people the benefit of the doubt and try to see the good qualities in all. I am convinced this is the best and only way to live. I hope people do the same for me because Lord knows I’ve got my share of faults.
Yet, sometimes, you just have to get cranky and bitchy with the general public. I don’t fight every battle, but some are worth the time.
Last night we had a traumatic experience around here. One that each one of you has probably gone through at least once. One you wish you could forget.
The haircut gone wrong.
I have been prohibited to divulge the name of the victim, but I will tell you it wasn’t me. Suffice it to say said-victim got butchered with a capital “B.” The problem was somewhat rectified with a
- return to the dreaded hair place
- a refund
- a bitch-session with the manager
- the promise of free haircuts to come
- a fixing of the hair to a something that the victim could live with until some hair grew back.
Let me put it this way. The victim’s hair was so messed up, the manager actually took a picture of it. Wall of shame or something.
The tears kept flowing, however. A bad haircut is like 2012: the end of the world.
I’ve had my share of trauma in the salon. When I was ten my mom and I agreed to cut off my long locks to something that resembled a Dorothy Hamill style. I figured if I had Dorothy’s hair I could become an Olympic skater.
Let’s call a spade a spade. Total bowl cut.
The inches came off and I left looking like someone with a penis – a BOY! Everyone in my fifth grade class reminded me of this fact several times a day for weeks. Clearly, the memory of the taunting isn’t still painful. At all.
The worst hair disaster, however, occurred only five years ago. I went in for highlights with my favorite hair person. We were tight. I trusted her. I asked if she could throw in some strawberry blond. I knew things had gone south when she rinsed my hair and said, “SHIT!”
My hair was clown orange. No joke. She tried to make it better by toning it down. It then became mahogany, just like the color of your favorite cabinets. Finally, she removed all the pigment from my hair and I walked out, six hours later, bright blond with one patch of clown orange, my battle scar.
What’s your worst hair disaster?
I am not giving you the finger and don’t you dare call me Bozo,