To be truthful, it all started with a really bad hair day. I thought I needed to have my hair cut, shaped—after two and a half months in Cyprus. Yes, I’m particular about my hair. I especially have two phobias—the dreaded “hair helmet” and over-peroxided, yellow hair. So, I conferred with everyone I know here and selected only the best salon in Nicosia. I booked with “the” person for flattering cuts. And then it happened. “Do you want highlights?” the receptionist asked. “Why not?” I thought. My blondish hair already stands out in this land of brunettes. A little lift couldn’t hurt.
I know, you’re ahead of me on this one, too. The colorist did a meticulous job, weaving bits to color, layering the foil just so. One hour later—voila! I looked in the mirror and did not recognize myself. Who was this red-faced person with canary yellow straw for hair? It was worse than a wig—it was really mine! Choking back hysteria, I said calmly, “I’ve never seen my hair so. . .so. . .blonde before. . .and it’s still wet!” The colorist, too, was shocked, but tried to pacify me. “Wait till it’s cut and blown dry,” she said, and rushed away to hide in the back room.
Ohmygosh. I sat in the chair while the stylist sliced and chopped, and hay-mowed my hair. A quick cut, dry, and finishing spray. She, the owner, hoped to whisk me out of the shop before I exploded. The rest of those moments are a blur. I know I said, “Thank you, but it is so. . .so. . .blonde!” The shop owner conferred with the colorist, “Is there anything you can do to make it right?” The colorist was befuddled. “I don’t want to ruin the highlights,” she said of her work. (“What highlights?” I shouted to myself. “My head is yellow platinum with whiter platinum streaks!”) But, to them, I was just babbling, once again, “I’ve never seen my hair so. . .so. . .blonde before!”
They offered to “work on it” and try something to give it a little more color back. (“Something basic, like a full and radical scalp transplant might work,” I thought.) The colorist said, “How soon could you come back in?” I looked at her, incredulous. “I don’t want to leave. I thought perhaps I could spend the night." She thought I was kidding. I simply couldn't envision myself out in public.
We agreed that I would come in the next day at 3:00. In the meantime, I had to go to the University (where one of my colleagues honestly failed to recognize me in the hall. “I had no idea that was you, Nancy,” she said). Worse, I had to teach my class. Cypriot students are so polite. Their eyes widened when they took in the yellow glow atop my head, but they didn’t say anything. No one shouted, “Dr. Sheley, what the hell happened?” But, I’m sure that was the collective question hovering in the air.
Oh, did I mention the bill? For this fiasco, a color, cut, style, and blow dry, Subtotal: 164 euros, 30 euro tip. Total: 194 euros. At today’s exchange, that’s food for a month. That’s a flight to and from London. That’s four tanks of petrol. In American dollars, it’s way too close to $300 to matter. Three hundred dollars??? Three hundred dollars??? And, it’s both a hair helmet and yellow straw!
When I turned off the lights and went to bed last night, I could still see my hair reflecting in the window glass. Reflecting is a calm word. The hair was radio-active. This afternoon, I’m returning to the shop. Hopefully, tomorrow brings a New Dawn. Or is that L’Oreal? At least, this time, I’m ready. I have a brown bag, with eye slits, in my purse.
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